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By RIDGWELL CULLUM 


THE HEART OF UNAGA 
THE MAN IN THE TWILIGHT 
\/ THE LUCK OF THE KID 
THE DEVIL’S KEG 
THE HOUND FROM THE NORTH 
THE BROODING WILD 
THE NIGHT RIDERS 
THE WATCHERS OF THE PLAINS 
THE COMPACT 
THE TRAIL OF THE AXE 
THE ONE WAY TRAIL 
THE SHERIFF OF DYKE HOLE 
THE TWINS OF SUFFERING CREEK 
THE GOLDEN WOMAN 
THE WAY OF THE STRONG 
THE LAW BREAKERS 
THE SON OF HIS FATHER 
THE MEN WHO WROUGHT 
THE PURCHASE PRICE 
THE TRIUMPH OF JOHN KARS 
THE LAW OF THE GUN 


V 


The 

Luck of the Kid 


By 

Ridgwell Cullum 




/ 


Author of 

“ The Heart of Unaga,” “The Man in the Twilight,” etc. 




> 


G.P.Putnam’s Sons 

I^tewYork & London 
Knickerbocker pres % 
1923 



Copyright, 1923 


by 

Ridgwell Cullura 


V 




Made in the United States of America 


jUH 30 ! :?3 

v' ■ U /*■ 

r \ 4 

©C1A711076 







In Happy Recollection 

OF 

OUR EARLY BOYHOOD 

THIS, MY TWENTY-FIRST BOOK, IS DEDICATED 
IN DEEPEST AFFECTION TO 


MY BROTHERS 















CONTENTS 


PART I 


CHAPTER PAGE 


I. —North of “Sixty” 





3 

II. —The Holocaust 


• 



9 

III. —The Planning of Le Gros 


• 



19 

IV.—Two Men of the North 


• 



30 

V. —The Luck of the Kid . 

• 


£ 



39 

VI. —The Euralians 


& 



46 

VII.—The Vengeance of Usak 


'4 



59 

VIII. —The Valley of the Fire Hills 

0 



72 

PART II 

I. —Placer City . . . 

• 

• 

• 

A 

9 i 

II. —The Cheechakos . 

• 

• 

• 

0 

no 

III. —Reindeer Farm 

• 

• 

• 

0 

130 

IV. —Within the Circle 

• 

• 

• 

• 

148 


V.—The House in the Valley of the Fire 

Hills.162 

VI. —The Eyes in the Night .... 174 

VII. — The Dream Hill. 196 

vii 





CONTENTS 


• • • 

Vlll 

CHAPTER 

VIII. —Bill Wilder Re-appears 

IX. —The Great Savage 

X. —Days of Promise . 

XI. —Children of the North 

XII. —Youth Supreme .. 

XIII. —A Whiteman’s Purpose 

XIV. —A Whiteman’s Word 
XV. —The Irony of Fate 

XVI. —The End of the Long Trail 


PAGE 
. 212 

. 229 

• 249 

. 268 
. 28l 

. 306 

• 326 

• 338 

• 350 




THE LUCK OF THE KID 


PARTI 









\ 


CHAPTER I 

NORTH OF “SIXTY” 

The sub-Arctic summer was at its height. The swelter 
of heat was of almost tropical intensity. No wisp of 
cloud marred the perfect purity of the steely blue sky, 
and no breath of wind relieved the intemperate scorch 
of the blazing sun. 

The two men on the river bank gave no heed to the 
oppressive heat. For the moment they seemed concerned 
with nothing but their ease, and the swarming flies, and 
the voracious attacks of the mosquitoes from which the 
smoke of their camp fire did its best to protect them. 
Down below them, a few yards away, their walrus-hide 
kyak lay moored to the bank of the river, whose sluggish, 
oily-moving waters flowed gently northward towards the 
far-off fields of eternal ice. It was noon, and a rough 
midday meal had been prepared and disposed of. Now 
they were smoking away a leisurely hour before resum¬ 
ing their journey. 

The younger of the two flung away the end of a cigar¬ 
ette with a movement that was almost violent in its im¬ 
patience. He turned a pair of narrow black eyes upon 
his companion, and their sparkle of resentment shone 
fiercely in sharp contrast against the dusky skin of their 
setting. 

“It’s no use blinding ourselves, sir,” he said, speaking 


3 


4 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


rapidly in the tongue of the whiteman, with only the 
faintest suspicion of native halting. “It’s here. But 
we’ve missed it. And another’s found it.” 

He was a youthful creature something short of the 
completion of his second decade. But that which he 
lacked in years he made up for in the alertness of pur¬ 
pose that looked out of his keen eyes. He was dark- 
skinned, its hue something between yellow and olive. He 
had prominent, broad cheek bones like those of all the na¬ 
tives of Canada’s extreme north. Yet his face differed 
from the general low type of the Eskimo. There was 
refinement in every detail of it. There was something 
that suggested a race quite foreign, but curiously akin. 

“Marty Le Gros? Yes?” 

The older man stirred. He had been lounging full 
length on the ground so that the smoke of the camp fire 
rolled heavily across him, and kept him safe from the tor¬ 
ment of winged insects. Now he sat up like the other, 
and crossing his legs tucked his booted feet under him. 

He was older than his companion by more than twenty 
years. But the likeness between them was profound. 
He, too, was dusky. He, too, had the broad, high cheek 
bones. He was of similar stature, short and broad. 
Then, too, his hair was black and cut short like the other’s, 
so short, indeed, that it bristled crisply over the crown of 
his bare head with the effect of a wire brush. He, too, was 
clad in the rough buckskin of the trail with no detail that 
could have distinguished him from the native. The only 
difference between the two was in age, and the colour of 
their eyes. The older man’s eyes were a sheer anachron¬ 
ism. They were a curious gleaming yellow, whose 
tawny depths shone with a subtle reflection of the bril¬ 
liant sunshine. 

Tell me of it again, Sate,’ he went on, knocking out 


NORTH OF “SIXTY” 5 

the red clay pipe he had been smoking, and re-filling it 
from a beaded buckskin pouch. 

But the youth was impatient, and the quick flash of his 
black eyes was full of scorn for the unruffled composure 
of the other. 

“He’s beaten us, father,” he cried. “He has it. I have 
seen.” He spread out his hands in an expressive gesture. 
And they were lean, delicate hands that were almost 
womanish. “This priest-man with his say-so of religion. 
He search all the time. It is the only thing he think of. 
Gold! Well, he get it.” 

He finished up with a laugh that only expressed fierce 
chagrin. 

“And he get it here on this Loon Creek, that you make 
us waste three months’ search on, son?” 

The father shook his head. And his eyes were cold, 
and the whole expression of his set features mask-like. 
The youth flung out his hands. 

“I go down for trade to Fort Cupar. This missionary, 
Marty Le Gros, is there. He show this thing. Two great 
nuggets, clear yellow gold. Big? They must be one 
hundred ounces each. No. Much more. And he tell the 
story to McLeod, who drinks so much, that he find them 
on Loon Creek. I hear him tell. I listen all the time. 
They don’t know me. They think I am a fool Eskimo. 
I let them think. Well? Where is it on Loon Creek? 
We go up. We come down. There is no sign anywhere. 
No work. The man lies, for all his religion. Or we are 
the fools we do not think we are.” 

Sate turned his searching eyes on the northern distance, 
where the broad stream merged itself into the purple of 
low, far-off hills. 

It was a scene common enough to the lower lands of 
Canada’s extreme north. There was nothing of barren 


6 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


desolation. There were no great hills, no great primor¬ 
dial forests along the broad valley of Loon Creek. But 
it was a widespread park land of woodland bluffs of 
hardy conifers dotting a brilliant-hued carpet of myriads 
of Arctic flowers, and long sun-forced grasses, and 
lichens of every shade of green. It was Nature’s own 
secret flower garden, far out of the common human track, 
where, throughout the ages, she had spent her efforts in 
enriching the soil, till, under an almost tropical summer 
heat, it yielded a display of vivid colour such as could 
never have been matched in any wilderness under southern 
skies. 

The older man observed him keenly. 

“Sate, my son,” he said at last, “you are discontented. 
Why ? This man has a secret. He has gold. Gold is the 
thing we look for. Not all the time, but between our 
trade which makes us rich, and our people rich. We are 
masters of the north country. It is ours by right of the 
thing we do. It must be ours. And all its secrets. This 
man’s secret. We must have it, too.” 

The man spoke quietly. He spoke without a smile, 
without emotion. His tawny eyes were expressionless, 
for all the blaze of light the sun reflected in them. 

“You are right to be discontented,” he went on, after 
the briefest pause. “But I look no longer on Loon Creek 
or any other jcreek. We get this secret from Marty Le 
Gros. I promise that.” 

“How?” 

The youth’s quick eyes were searching his father’s face. 
He had listened to the thing he had hoped to hear. And 
now he was stirred to a keen expectancy that was without 
impatience. 

The other shrugged his powerful shoulders. 

“He will tell it to us—himself.” 


NORTH OF “SIXTY” 


7 


The black eyes of the youth abruptly shifted their gaze. 
Something in the curious eyes of his parent communi¬ 
cated the purpose lying behind his words. But it was in¬ 
sufficient to satisfy his headlong impulse. 

“He? He tell his secret to—us?” 

There was derision in the challenge. 

“Yes. He will tell—when I ask him.” 

“But it is far south and west. It is beyond—our terri¬ 
tory. It is within the reach of the northern police. 
There is big risk for you to ask him the—question.” 

Again the man with the yellow eyes shook his head. 

“Your mother looked for you to be a girl. Maybe her 
wish had certain effect. Risk? There is no risk. I see 
none. It is simple. I bend this man to my will. If he 
will not bend I break him. Yes. He is white. That is 
as it should be. Someday—sometime the whites of this 
country will bend, or break before us. They know that. 
They fear that. The thing they do not yet know is that 
they bend now. This man, Le Gros, we will see to him 
without delay.” 

He rose from his cross-legged position almost without 
an effort. He stood up erect, a short, broad-shouldered, 
virile specimen of manhood in his hard trail clothing. 
Then he moved swiftly down towards the light canoe at 
the water’s edge. 

The youth, Sate, was slow to follow him. He watched 
the sturdy figure with unsmiling eyes. He resented the 
imputation upon his courage. He resented the taunt his 
father had flung. But his feelings carried nothing deeper 
than the natural resentment of a war-like, high-strung 
spirit. 

He understood his father. He knew him for a creature 
of iron nerve, and a will that drove him without mercy. 
More than that he admitted the man’s right to say the 


8 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


thing he chose to his son. His attitude was one of curi¬ 
ous filial submission whatever the hurt he suffered. He 
may have been inspired by affection, or it may simply have 
been an expression of the filial obedience and subservience 
native to the race from which he sprang. But the taunt 
hurt him sorely. And he jumped to a decision as violent 
as it was impulsive. 

He leapt to his feet, slight, active as a panther, and 
hastily descended to the water’s edge and joined his 
parent. 

“You think me like a woman, father? You think 
that?” he demanded hotly. 

The other turned eyes that gained nothing of gentleness 
from their smile. 

“No,” he said, and bent again to his work of hauling 
the little craft clear of the drift-wood that had accumu¬ 
lated about it. 

The youth breathed a deep sigh. It was an expression 
of relief. 

“We put that question to this Le Gros soon? Yes?” 
he asked. 

“Yes.” 

Sate nodded, and a great light shone in his black eyes. 
They were fierce with exultation. 

“Then we must waste no time. The way is long. 
There are many miles to Fox Bluff.” He laughed. “Le 
Gros,” he went on. “It is a French name, and it means— 
Tcha! he exclaimed with all the impetuous feeling which 
drove him like a whirlwind. “We show him what it 
means.” 

The man with the tawny eyes looked up from his work. 
For one moment he gazed searchingly into the dark face 

of his son. Then he returned again to his work without 
a word. 


CHAPTER II 


THE HOLOCAUST 

“Man, Fd sooner they’d put out my eyes, or cut out my 
tongue. I’d sooner they’d set my body to everlasting 
torture. Look! Look there! Yes, and there! Oh, God! 
It’s everywhere the same.” A shaking hand was out- 
thrust. “Dead! Mutilated! Old men! Old women! 
And poor little bits of life that had only just begun. The 
barbarity! The monstrousness!” 

Marty Le Gros, the missionary of the Hekor River, 
spoke in a tone that was almost choking with grief. His 
eyes, so dark and wide, were full of the horror upon which 
they gazed. His Gallic temperament was stirred to its 
depths. The heart of the man was overflowing with pity 
and grief, and outraged parental affection. 

Usak, the Indian, his servant, stood beside him. He 
offered no verbal comment. Llis only reply to the white- 
man was a low, fierce, inarticulate grunt, which was like 
the growl of some savage beast. 

The men were standing at the entrance to a wide clear¬ 
ing. The great Hekor River flowed behind them, where 
the canoe they had just left swung to the stream, moored 
at the crude landing stage of native manufacture. They 
were gazing upon the setting of a little Eskimo encamp¬ 
ment. It was one of the far flung Missions which 
claimed the spiritual service of Le Gros. He had only 
just arrived from his headquarters at Fox Bluff, on the 


9 


10 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


river, near by to Fort Cupar the trading post, on his 
monthly visit, and the hideous destruction he had dis¬ 
covered left him completely staggered and helpless. 

The devastation of the settlement was complete. 
Dotted about the clearing, grimly silhouetted against a 
background of dull green woods, stood the charred re¬ 
mains of a dozen and more log shanties. Broken and 
burnt timbers littered the open ground, and filled the 
room spaces where the roofs had fallen. Every habita¬ 
tion was burnt out stark. Not even the crude household 
gods had been spared. 

But this was the least of the horror the two men gazed 
upon. The human aspect of the destruction was a thou¬ 
sand-fold more appalling. The ground was littered with 
mutilated dead. As the missionary had said, there were 
old men, old women, and babes torn from their mothers’ 
arms. Silent and still, death reigned everywhere. The 
young men ? The young women ? There was no sign of 
these. And therein lay a further horror which the on¬ 
lookers were swift to appreciate. 

The hideous fascination of the scene held them. But at 
last it was Usak who broke from under its spell. 

“Euralians!” he cried fiercely. And again in his voice 
rang that note which sounded like the goaded fury of 
some creature of the forest. 

The Euralians! 

To the mind of every far northwestern man, in that 
territory which lies hundreds of miles beyond the effi¬ 
cient protection of the northern police, the name of this 
people was sufficient to set stirring a chill of unvoiced 
terror that was something superstitious. Who they were ? 
It was almost impossible to say. It was still a problem 
in the minds of even the farthest travelled trail men and 
fur hunters. But they were known to all as a scourge of 


THE HOLOCAUST 


ii 


the far flung border which divides Alaska from the ex¬ 
treme north of Yukon Territory. 

The threat they imposed on the region was constantly 
growing. It had grown lately from the marauding of 
mere seal ground and fur poachers, who came down out 
of the iron fastnesses beyond the Arctic fringes of 
Alaska, where they lived hidden in security beyond the 
reach of the strong arm of the United States law, into a 
murder scourge threatening all human life and property 
within reach of their ruthless operations. 

Hitherto. Le Gros had only known them from the tales 
told by the native pelt hunters, the men who came down to 
trade at Fort Cupar. He knew no more and no less than 
the rest of the handful of white folks who peopled the 
region. The stories he had had to listen to, for all their 
corroborative nature, were, he knew, for the most part 
founded upon hearsay. He had listened to them. He 
always listened to these adventurers. But somehow his 
gentle, philosophic mind had left him missing something 
of the awe and dread which beset the hearts of the men 
whose lurid stories took vivid colour from the stirring 
emotions which inspired them. 

But now, now he was wide awake to the reality of the 
terror he had so largely attributed to superstitious exag¬ 
geration. Now he knew that no story he had ever lis¬ 
tened to could compare with the reality. He was gazing 
upon a scene of hideous murder and wanton, savage de¬ 
struction that utterly beggared description. 

His feelings were torn to shreds, and his heart cried 
out in agony of helpless pity. 

These poor benighted folk, these simple, peaceful 
Eskimo, amiable, industrious, yearning only for the bet¬ 
terment he was able by his simple ministrations to bring 
into their lives. What were they to claim such barbarity 


12 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


from a savage horde ? What had they ? What had they 
done? Nothing. Simply nothing. They were fisher- 
folk who spent their lives in the hunt, asking only to be 
left in peace to work out the years of their desperately 
hard-lived lives. Now—now they were utterly wiped 
out, a pitiful sacrifice to the insensate lust of this mysteri¬ 
ous scourge. 

Le Gros thrust his cap from his broad forehead. It 
was a gesture of impotent despair. 

“God in Heaven!” he cried, and the words seemed to 
be literally wrung from him. 

“It no use to call Him.” 

The Indian’s retort came on the instant. And his tone 
was harshly ironical. 

“What I tell you plenty time,” he went on sharply. 
“The great God. He look down. He see this thing. He 
do nothing. No. It this way. Man do this. Yes. Man 
do this. Man must punish this dam Euralian. I know.” 

The missionary turned from the slaughter ground. He 
searched the Indian’s broad, dusky face. It was a strik¬ 
ing face, high-boned and full of the eagle keenness of the 
man’s Sioux Indian forbears. He was a creature of enor¬ 
mous stature, lean, spare and of tremendous muscle. For 
all he was civilized, for all he was educated, this devoted 
servant lacked nothing of the savage which belonged to 
his red-skinned ancestors. 

Servant and master these two comrades in a common 
Cause stood in sharp contrast. Usak was a savage and 
nothing could make him otherwise. Usak was a man of 
fierce, hot passions. The other, the whiteman, except for 
his great stature, was in direct antithesis. The mission¬ 
ary was moulded in the gentlest form. He was no priest. 
He represented no set denomination of religion. He was 
a simple man of compassionate heart who had devoted his 



THE HOLOCAUST 


13 


life to the service of his less fortunate fellow creatures 
where such service might help them towards enlighten¬ 
ment and bodily and spiritual comfort. 

He had been five years on his present mission at Fox 
Bluff. He had come there of his own choice supported 
by the staunch devotion of a young wife who was no less 
prepared to sacrifice herself. But now he stood almost 
alone, but not quite. For though death had swiftly robbed 
him of a wife’s devotion, it had left him with the price¬ 
less possession they had both so ardently yearned. The 
motherless Felice was at home now in the care of Pri-loo, 
the childless wife of Usak, who had gladly mothered the 
motherless babe. 

Even as he gazed into the Indian’s furious eyes Le 
Gros’ mind had leaped back to his home at Fox Bluff. A 
sudden fear was clutching at his heart. Oh, he knew that 
Fox Bluff was far away to the east and south. He knew 
that the journey thither from the spot where they stood 
was a full seven days’ of hard paddling on the great river 
behind them. But Pri-loo and his infant child were alone 
in his home. They were utterly without protection ex¬ 
cept for the folk at the near-by Fort. And these Eura- 
lians, if they so desired, what was to stop them with the 
broad highway of the river which was open to all? 

He shook his head endeavouring to stifle the fears that 
had suddenly beset him. 

“You’re wrong, Usak,” he said quietly. “God sees all. 
He will punish—in his own good time.” 

Usak’s fierce eyes snapped. 

“You say that? Oh, yes. You say that all the time, 
boss,” he cried. “I tell you—no. You my good boss. 
You mak me man to know everything so as a whiteman 
knows. You show me all thing. You teach me. You 
mak me build big reindeer farm so I live good, an’ Pri-loo 


14 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


eat plenty all time. Oh yes. I read. I write. I mak 
figgers. You mak me do this thing. You, my good boss. 
I mak for you all the time. I big heart for you. That so. 
But no. I tell you—No! The great God not know this 
thing. He not know this Euralian wher’ he come from. 
No. Not no more as you he know this thing. But I 
know. I—Usak. I know ’em all, everything.” 

At another time the missionary would have listened to 
the man’s quaint egoism with partly shocked amusement. 
His final statement, however, startled him out of every 
other feeling. 

“You know the hiding-place of these—fiends?” he de¬ 
manded sharply. 

Usak nodded. A curious vanity was shining in the 
dark eyes which looked straight into the whiteman’s. 

“I know him—yes,” he said. 

“You’ve never told a thing of this before?” 

There was doubt in the missionary’s tone, and in the re¬ 
gard of his brown eyes. 

“I know him,” Usak returned shortly. Then, in a 
moment, he flung out his great hands in a vehement ges¬ 
ture. “I say I know him—an’ we go kill ’em all up.” 

All doubt was swept from the missionary’s mind. He 
understood the passionate savagery underlying the 
Indian’s veneer of civilization. The man was in des¬ 
perate earnest. 

“No.” Le Gros’ denial came sharply. Then his gaze 
drifted back to the scene of destruction, and a deep sigh 
escaped him. “No,” he reiterated simply. “This is not 

for us. It is for the police. If you know the hiding-place 
of these-” 

“No good, boss. No,” Usak cried, in fierce disappoint¬ 
ment. “The p’lice? No. They so far.” He held up 
one hand with two fingers thrusting upwards. “One_ 





THE HOLOCAUST 


15 


two p’lice by Placer. An’ Placer many days far off. No 
good.” He shrugged his great shoulders. “Us mans 
all dead. Yes. Pri-loo all dead. Felice dead, too. All 
mans dead when p’lice come. I know. You not know. 
You good man. You not think this thing. Usak bad 
man Indian. He think this thing all time. Listen. I tell 
you, boss, my good boss. I say the thing in my mind. 
The thing I know.” 

He broke off and glanced in the direction of the river, 
and his eyes dwelt on the gently rocking canoe. He 
turned again, and his thoughtful eyes came once more to 
the scene of horror that infuriated his savage heart. He 
was like a man preparing to face something of desperate 
consequence. Something that might grievously disturb 
the relations in which he stood to the man to whom he 
believed himself to owe everything he now treasured in 
life. At last his hands stirred. They were raised, and 
moved automatically under emotions which no words of 
his were adequate to express. 

“I big trail man,” he began. “I travel far. I go by the 
big ice, by the big hills, by the big water. I mak trade 
with all mans Eskimo. I mak big reindeer trade with 
him Eskimo, same as you show me, boss. So I go far, 
far all time. So I know this Euralian better as ’em all. I 
not say. Oh, no. It not good. Now I say. This mans 
Euralian look all time for all thing. Furs? Yes. They 
steal ’em furs, an’ kill ’em up all Eskimo. So Eskimo all 
big scare. Gold? Yes. They look for him all same, too. 
Oil? Yes. Coal? Yes. All this thing they look, look for 
all time. Him mans not Eskimo. They not Indian. 
They not whiteman. No. They damn foreign devil so 
as I not know. Him all mans live in whiteman house all 
time. Big house. I know. I find him house.” 

The man’s unease had passed. He was absorbed in the 


16 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


thing he had to tell. Suddenly after a moment’s pause, 
he raised a hand pointing so that his wondering com¬ 
panion turned again to the spectacle he would gladly have 
avoided. 

“Boss, you mak ’em this thing! You mak ’em kill all 
up! You!” 

“I?” 

Le Gros’ horrified gaze swept back to the face of the 
accusing man. The Indian was fiercely smiling. He 
nodded. 

“You mak ’em this, but you not know. You not know 
nothing,” he said in a tone that was almost gentle. “Oh, 
I say ’em this way, but I not mean you kill ’em all up. 
You? No. Listen, boss,” he went on, coming close up 
and lowering his harsh tones. “You kill ’em all up be¬ 
cause you tell all the mans you mak big find gold on Loon 
Creek. Boss, you tell the mans. You think all mans 
good like so as you. So you not hide this thing. You 
tell ’em, an’ you show big piece gold—two. Now you 
know how you kill ’em all up.” 

Usak waited. The amazement in the eyes of the mis¬ 
sionary gave place to a grave look of understanding. 

“You mean that my story of the discovery of gold I 
made has caused—this?” He shook his head, and the 
question in his mild eyes was urgent. “How ? Tell me, 
Usak, and tell it quick.” 

The Indian nodded. 

“Oh, it easy. Yes. You tell the story. It go far. It 
go quick. All mans know it. Gold! The good boss, Le 
Gros, find gold! Him Euralian. Ears, eyes, they all time 
everywhere. Him hear, too. Maybe him see, too. I not 
say. Him mak big think. Him say: ‘This man, this 
good boss, him find gold! How we get it? How we 
rob him, an’ steal ’em all up gold! Euralian think. It 


THE HOLOCAUST 


1 7 


easy. Le Gros good man. Us go. Us kill ’em all up 
him Mission. One Mission. Two Mission. All Mis¬ 
sion. Then us go kill up all mans at Fort Cupar. Kill 
up Marty Le Gros an’ Usak. Then we get ’em all this 
gold.’” 

There was fierce conviction in every word the man said. 
For all the crudeness of his argument, if argument it 
could be called, the force of his convictions carried weight 
even with a man who was normally devoid of suspicion. 
Then, too, there was still the horror of the spectacle in the 
clearing to yield its effect. But greater than all the other’s 
^conviction or argument, greater than all else, was the 
missionary’s surge of terror for the safety of his little 
baby daughter with her nurse back there in his home. 

Le Gros breathed deeply. His dark eyes were full of 
the gravest anxiety. For the moment he had forgotten 
everything but the personal danger he had suddenly 
realised to be threatening. 

Usak was watching him. He understood the thing that 
was stirring behind the whiteman’s troubled eyes. He 
had driven home his conviction and he was satisfied. Now 
he awaited agreement with his desire that they should 
themselves go and deal with these fierce marauders. He 
saw no reason for hesitation. He saw nothing in his de¬ 
sire that could make it impossible, hopeless. But then he 
was a savage and only applied calm reason when passion 
left him undisturbed. The only thing to satisfy his pres¬ 
ent mood was to go, even singlehanded if necessary, and 
retaliate slaughter for slaughter. 

Finally it was he again who broke the silence. The 
spirit driving him would not permit of long restraint. 

“Us go, boss?” he urged. 

Marty Le Gros suddenly bestirred himself. He shook 
his head. 


18 THE LUCK OF THE KID 

“No,” he said. Then he pointed at the scene in front 
of them. 

“We do this thing. The poor dead things must be 
hidden up. They were Christians, and we must give them 
Christian burial. After that we go. We go back home. 
There is my little Felice. There is your Pri-loo. They 
must be made safe.” 

The man’s decision was irrevocable. The Indian 
recognised the tone and understood. But his disappoint¬ 
ment was intense. 

“Us not go?” he cried. His words were accompanied 
by a sound that was like a laugh, a harsh, derisive laugh. 
“So,” he said. “We bury ’em all these people. Yes. 
The good boss say so. Then we go home, an’ mak safe 
Felice. We mak safe Pri-loo. Then us all get kill up— 
sure.” 


CHAPTER III 


THE PLANNING OF LE GROS 

It was still broad daylight for all the lateness of the hour. 
At this time of year darkness was unknown on the Hekor 
River. The sky was brilliant, with its cloudless summer 
blue shining with midday splendour. 

Marty Le Gros was standing in the doorway of his log- 
built home, a home of considerable dimensions and com¬ 
fort for his own hands, and those gentle hands of his 
dead wife, had erected every carefully trimmed log of it. 
He had only that day returned, sick at heart with the 
hideous recollection of the tragedy of his far-off Mission. 

He was gazing out over the bosom of the sluggish 
river, so broad, so peacefully smiling as it stole gently 
away on its never-ending task of feeding the distant lake 
whose demands upon it seemed quite insatiable. His 
mind was gravely troubled, and it was planning the thing 
which had so suddenly become imperative. In a moment 
it seemed all the peace, all the quiet delight of his years 
of ardent labour amongst the Eskimo had been utterly 
rent and dispelled. He had been caught up in the tide of 
Usak’s savage understanding of the position of imminent 
danger in which he and all his belongings were standing. 
The thing he contemplated must be done, and done at 
once. 

The evening hour, for all its midday brilliance, was no 
less peaceful than the hours of sundown in lower lati- 


19 


20 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


tudes. He had learned to love every mood of this far 
northern world from its bitter storms of winter to the 
tropical heat of its fly and mosquito-ridden summer. It 
was the appeal of the remote silence of it all; it was 
the breadth of that wide northern world so far beyond the 
sheer pretences of civilization; it was the freedom, the 
sense of manhood it inspired. Its appeal had never once 
failed him even though it had robbed him of that tender 
companionship of the woman whose only thought in the 
world had been for him and his self-sacrificing labours. 

At another time, with the perfect content of a mind at 
ease, he would have stood there smoking his well-charred 
pipe contemplating the beauty of this world he had made 
his own. But all that was changed now. The beauty, the 
calm of it all, only aggravated his moody unease. 

Beyond the mile-wide river the western hills rose up to 
dizzy, snow-capped heights. Their far off slopes were 
buried under the torn beds of ages-old glacial fields, or 
lay hidden behind the dark forest-belts of primordial 
growth. The sight of them urged him with added alarm. 
He was facing the west, searching beyond the Alaskan 
border, and somewhere out there, hidden within those 
scarce trodden fastnesses lay the pulsing heart of the 
thing he had suddenly come to fear. Usak had warned 
him. Usak had convinced him on the seven day paddle 
down the river. So it was that those far-off ramparts, 
with their towering serrated crowns lost in the heavy 
mists enshrouding them, no longer appealed in their 
beauty. Their appeal had changed to one of serious 
dread. 

He avoided them deliberately. His gaze came back to 
the nearer distance of the river, and just beyond it where 
the old fur-trading post, which gave its name to the 
region, stood out dark and staunch as it had stood for 


THE PLANNING OF LE GROS 


21 


more than a century. A heavy stockade of logs, which 
the storms of the years had failed to destroy, encom¬ 
passed it. The sight of the stockade filled him with a 
satisfaction it had never inspired before. He drew a 
deep breath. Yes, he was glad because of it. He felt 
that those old pelt hunters had built well and with great 
wisdom. 

Then the wide river slipping away so gently south¬ 
ward. It was the road highway of man in these remote¬ 
nesses, passing along just here between low foreshores of 
attenuated grasses and lichen-covered boulders, lit by 
the blaze of colour from myriads of tiny Arctic flowers. 
It was very, very beautiful. But its beauty was of less con¬ 
cern now than another thought. Just as it was a possible 
approach for the danger he knew to be threatening, so 
it was the broad highway of escape should necessity de¬ 
mand. 

For the time Le Gros was no longer the missionary. 
He was no less a simple adventurer than those others who 
peopled the region. Spiritual things had no longer place 
in his thought. Temporal matters held him. His 
motherless child was there behind him in his home in the 
care of the faithful Pri-loo. 

Gold! He wondered. What was the curse that clung 
to the dull yellow creation of those fierce terrestrial fires ? 
A painful trepidation took possession of him as he 
thought of the tremendous richness of the discovery 
which the merest chance had flung into his hands. It had 
seemed absurd, curiously absurd, even at the time. He 
had had no desire for any of it. He had not yielded him¬ 
self to the hardship and self-sacrifice of the life of a sub- 
Arctic missionary and retained any desire for the things 
which gold would yield him. Perhaps for this very rea¬ 
son an ironical fate had forced her favours upon him. 


22 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


He had been well-nigh staggered at the wealth of his dis¬ 
covery, and he had laughed in sheer amazed amusement 
that of all people such should fall to his lot. The dis¬ 
covery had been his alone. Not even Usak had shared in 
it. There had been no reason for secrecy, so he had been 
prepared to give the story of it broadcast to the world. 

He had shown his specimens, and he had enjoyed the 
mystery with which he had enshrouded his discovery 
when he displayed them to Jim McLeod, the factor at 
Fort Cupar, and a small gathering of trailmen. This had 
been at first. And chance alone had saved him from re¬ 
vealing the locality of his discovery. It came in a flash 
when he had witnessed the staggering effect which the 
two great nuggets he offered for inspection had had upon 
his audience. In that moment he had realised something 
of the potentiality of the thing that was his. 

Instantly re-action set in. Instantly he was himself 
transformed. The missionary fell from him. He re¬ 
membered his baby girl, and became at once a plain ad¬ 
venturer and—father. Someday Felice would grow to 
womanhood. Someday he would no longer be there to 
tend and care for her. What could he give her that she 
might be freed from the hardships waiting upon a lonely 
girl in a world that had so little of comfort and sympathy 
to bestow upon the weak? Nothing. So, when they 
pressed him for the locality whence came his discovery, 
he—deliberately lied. 

More than ever now was he concerned for his secret. 
More than ever was he concerned for the thing which the 
savage understanding of Usak had instilled into his simple 
mind. His secret must be safeguarded at once. What¬ 
ever the future might have in store for him personally he 
must make safe this thing for—little Felice. 

A sound came to him from within the house. It was 


THE PLANNING OF LE GROS 


23 


the movement of the moccasined feet of Usak’s woman, 
Pri-loo. He spoke over his shoulder without leaving the 
doorway. 

“Does she sleep, Pri-loo?” he inquired in a low voice. 
The answer came in the woman's deep, velvet tones. 

“She sleep, boss.” 

The man bestirred himself. He turned about, and the 
woman’s dusky beauty came under his urgent gaze. 

“Then I go,” he said. “Pm going right over to see 
Jim McLeod, at the Fort. You just sit around till Usak 
comes back from the farm. You won’t quit this door¬ 
way till he comes along. That so? I’ll be back in a while, 
anyway. Felice’ll be all right? You’ll see to it?” 

“Oh, yes. Sure. Felice all right. Pri-loo not quit. 
No.” 

There was smiling confidence and assurance in the 
woman’s wide eyes, so dark and gentle, yet so full of the 
savage she really was. 

“Good.” Marty Le Gros reached out his hand and 
patted the woman’s rounded shoulder under the elabor¬ 
ately beaded buckskin tunic she had never abandoned for 
the less serviceable raiment of the whitewoman. “Then 

1 ga ” 

The missionary nodded and passed out. And the 
squaw stood in his place in the doorway gazing after him 
as he hurried down to the canoe which lay moored at the 
river bank. 


The scene about the Fort was one of leisurely activity. 
The day’s work was nearly completed for all the sun was 
high in the heavens. The smoke of camp fires was lolling 
upon the still evening air, and the smell of cooking food 
pervaded the entire neighbourhood. 


24 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


Now the store had emptied of its human, bartering 
freight, and with the close of the day’s trading, Jim Mc¬ 
Leod and his young wife, like all the rest, were about to 
retire to their evening meal. 

The man was leaning on the long counter contemplat¬ 
ing the narrow day book in which he recorded his transac¬ 
tions with the Eskimo, and those other trailmen who 
were regular customers. His wife, Hesther, young, 
slight and almost pretty, was standing in the open door¬ 
way regarding the simple camp scenes going on within 
the walls of the great stockade which surrounded their 
home. She was simply clad in a waist and skirt of some 
rough plaid material. Her soft brown eyes were alight 
and smiling, and their colour closely matched the wealth 
of brown hair coiled neatly about her head. 

“Nearly through, Jim?” she inquired after awhile. 

The man at the counter looked up. 

“It ain’t so bad as it’s been,” he said. “But it’s short. 
A hell of a piece short of what it should be.” He moved 
out from behind his counter and came to the woman’s side. 
“You know, Hes, I went into things last night. We’re 
three hundred seals down on the year and I’d hate to tell 
you the number of foxes we’re short. We’re gettin’ 
the left-overs. That’s it. Those darn Euralians skin the 
pore fools of Eskimo out of the best, an’ we get the 
stuff they ain’t no use for. It’s a God’s shame, gal. If 
it goes on ther’s jest one thing in sight. We’ll be beatin’ 
it back to civilization, an’ chasing up a grub stake. The 
company’ll shut this post right down—sure.” 

The man glanced uneasily about him. His pale blue 
eyes were troubled as he surveyed the shelves laden with 
gaudy trading truck, and finally came to rest on the small 
pile of furs baled behind the counter ready for the store¬ 
room. He understood his position well enough. He 


THE PLANNING OF LE GROS 


25 


held it by results. The Fur Valley Trading Company 
was no philanthropic institution. If Fort Cupar showed 
no profit then Fort Cupar, so far as their enterprise was 
concerned, would be closed down. 

He was worried. He knew that a time was coming in 
the comparatively near future when Hesther would need 
all the comfort and ease that he could afford her. If the 
Company closed down as it had been threatening him, it 
would, he felt, be something in the nature of a tragedy to 
them. 

The woman smiled round into his somewhat fat face. 

“Don’t you feel sore, Jim,” she said in her cheerful 
inspiriting way. “Maybe the Good God hands us folk 
out our trials, but I guess He’s mighty good in passing 
us compensations. Our compensation’s coming along, 
boy. An’ I’m looking forward to that time so I don’t 
hardly know how to wait for it.” 

Jim’s blue eyes wavered before the steadfast encourage¬ 
ment in his wife’s confident, slightly self-conscious smile. 

“Yes,” he said, and turned away again to the inadequate 
pile of furs that troubled him. 

Nature had been less than kind to Jim McLeod. His 
body was ungainly with fat for all his youth. His face 
was puffy and almost gross, which the habit of clean 
shaving left painfully evident. In reality the man was 
keen and purposeful. He was kindly and intensely 
honest. His one serious weakness, the thing that had 
driven him to join up with the hard life of the northern 
adventurers was an unfortunate and wholly irresistible 
addiction to alcohol. I11 civilization he had failed utterly 
for that reason alone, and so, with his young wife, he 
had fled from temptation whither he hoped and believed 
his curse would be unable to follow him. 

“You see, Jim,” Hesther went on reassuringly, “if they 


26 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


close us down, what then? I guess we’ll be only little 
worse off. They’ve got to see us down to our home town, 

and we can try again. We—” 

The man interrupted her with a quick shake of the 

head. 

“I don’t quit this north country,” he said definitely. 
“Ther’s things here if we can only hit ’em. And besides 
it’s my only chance. An’, Hes, it’s your only chance— 
with me. You know what I mean, dear.” He nodded. 
“Sure you do, gal. It means drink an’ hell—down there. 
It means—” 

The girl laughed happily. 

“Have you escaped it here, Jim?” She shook her head. 
“But I don’t worry so I have you. You’re mine. You’re 
my husband,” she went on softly. “God gave you to me, 
an’ whatever you are, or do, why I guess I’d rather have 
you than any good angel man who lived on tea and pie- 
talk. Please God you’ll quit the drink someday. You 
can’t go on trying like you do without making good in the 
end. But even if you didn’t—well, you’re just mine 
anyway.” 

Jim smiled tenderly into his wife’s up-turned face. 
And he stooped and kissed the pretty, ready lips. And 
somehow half his trouble seemed to vanish with the 
thought of the beautiful mother heart that would so soon 
be called upon to exercise its natural functions. This 
frail, warm-hearted, courageous creature was his staunch 
rock of support. And her simple inspiriting philosophy 
was the hope which always urged him on. 

“That’s fine, my dear,” he said. “You’re the best in 
the world, but you can’t conjure furs so we can keep this 
darn old ship afloat. But it don’t do to think that way. 
We’ll jest think of that baby of ours that’s cornin’ an’ 
do our best, an’—Say!” He broke off pointing through 



THE PLANNING OF LE GROS 


27 


the doorway and beyond the gateway of the great stock¬ 
ade in the direction of the river. “Ther’s Marty cornin' 
along up from the river—and—he’s in one hell of a 
hurry.” 

The girl turned at once, her gaze following the pointing 
finger. The great figure of the missionary was hastily 
approaching. The sight of his hurry was sufficiently 
unusual to impress them both. 

“I didn’t know he’d got back.” Hesther’s tone was 
thoughtful. 

Jim shook his head. 

“He wasn’t due back for two weeks.” 

“Is there—? Do you think—?” 

“I guess ther’s something worrying sure. He don’t—” 

The man broke off and placed an arm about the 
woman’s shoulder. 

“Say best run along, Hes, an’ see about food. I’ll ask 
him to eat with us.” 

The wife needed no second bidding. She understood. 
She nodded smilingly and hurried away. 


The two men were standing beside the counter. Jim 
McLeod had his broad back turned to it, and his fat 
hands, stretched out on either side of him, were gripping 
the over-hanging edge of it. His pale eyes were gazing 
abstractedly out through the doorway searching the bril¬ 
liant distance beyond the river, while a surge of vivid 
thought was speeding through his brain. 

Marty Le Gros was intent upon his friend. His dark 
eyes were riveted upon the fleshy features of the man 
upon whom he knew he must depend. 

There was a silence between them now. It was the 


28 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


silence which falls and endures only under the pro- 
foundest pre-occupation. The store in which they stood, 
the simple frame structure set up on the ruins of the 
old-time Fort, which it had displaced, was forgotten. The 
lavish stock of trading truck, the diminished pile of furs. 
Neither had cognizance of the things about them. They 
were concerned only with the thing which Marty had 
told of. The desperate slaughter, the destruction of his 
Mission, seven days higher up the river. 

After awhile Jim stirred. His gaze came back to the 
surroundings in which they stood. He glanced over the 
big room with its boarded walls, adorned here and there 
with fierce, highly-coloured showcards which he had 
fastened up to entertain his simple customers. His waver¬ 
ing eyes paused at the great iron stove which in winter 
made life possible. They passed on and finally rested on 
the simple modern doorway through which his young 
wife had not long passed on her way to prepare food. 
Here they remained, for he was thinking of her and of 
their baby so soon to be born. Finally he yielded his 
hold on the counter and turned on the man who had told 
of the horror he had so recently witnessed. 

“It's bad, Marty,” he said in a low tone. “It’s so bad 
it’s got me scared. Why ? Why ? Say, it don’t leave me 
guessing. Does it you?” 

He looked searchingly into the steady, dark eyes of the 
man he had come to regard above all others. 

“No,” he went on emphatically. “You’re not guessing. 
They’ve heard of your gold—these cursed Euralians. 
This is their way of doin’ things sure. They’ll be along 
down on us—next.” 

The door opened at the far end of the store. Hesther 
stood for a moment framed in the opening. She gazed 
quickly at the two men, and realised something of the 


THE PLANNING OF LE GROS 


29 

urgency under which they were labouring. In a mo¬ 
ment she forced a smile to her eyes. 

“Supper’s fixed, Jim,” she said quietly. “Marty’ll join 
us—sure. Will you both come right along?” 


CHAPTER IV 

TWO MEN OF THE NORTH 

“Guess we got an hour to talk, Marty. Hesther won’t 
be through her chores in an hour.” 

Le Gros nodded. 

“Your Hesther’s a good soul, and Pd hate to scare her.” 

“Sure. That’s how I feel. I make it you’ve a heap of 
trouble back of your head.” 

“Yes.” 

The missionary settled himself more comfortably in 
the hard chair he had turned from the supper table. He 
had set it in the shade of the printed cotton curtain that 
adorned the parlor window. 

Jim McLeod was less concerned for the glaring even¬ 
ing sunlight. He sat facing it, bulking clumsily on a 
chair a size too small for him. His pale blue eyes gazed 
out of the window which was closely barred with 
mosquito-netting. 

The last of the supper things had been cleared from the 
table, and the sounds penetrating the thin, boarded walls 
of the room told of the labours of the busy housewife 
going on in the lean-to kitchen beyond. There was no 
need for these added labours which Hesther inflicted upon 
herself. There were native women who worked about 
the store quite capable of relieving her. But Hesther 
understood that the men wanted to talk in private. 


30 


TWO MEN OF THE NORTH 


3i 


Besides, it was her happy philosophy that God made 
woman to care for the creature comforts of her man, and 
to relegate that duty, all those duties connected there¬ 
with, would be an offence which nothing could condone. 

Le Gros removed his pipe from his mouth. His eyes 
were full of reflective unease. 

“Yes/’ he reiterated, “and I guess it’s trouble enough 
to scare more than a woman.” 

He thrust a hand into a pocket of his coat. He pulled 
out a little canvas bag and unfastened the string about 
its top. He peered at the yellow fragmentary contents. 
It was of several ounces of gold dust, that wonderful 
alluvial dust ranging in size from sheer dust to nuggets 
the size of a schoolboy’s marbles. 

He passed the bag across to the trader. 

“Get a look at that,” he said. “It’s the wash-up of a 
single panning. Just one. I only showed you the two 
big nuggets before—when I—lied to you where I made 
the ‘strike.’ ” 

“Lied? You didn’t get it on Loon Creek?” 

“No.” 

Jim took possession of the bag of dust. He peered into 
its golden depths. And the man observing him noted the 
keen lighting of his eyes, and the instant, absorbed in¬ 
terest that took possession of him. After a moment the 
trader looked up. 

“One panning?” he demanded incredulously. 

“One panning.” 

Jim drew a deep breath. It was an expression of that 
curious covetous thrill at the sight of unmeasured wealth 
which is so human. He weighed the bag in his hand. 

“Ther’s more than three ounces of stuff here,” he said, 
gazing into the dark eyes opposite him. “Guess it’s 
nearer four.” Again he breathed deeply. “One pan- 


32 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


ning!” he exclaimed. Then followed an ejaculation 
which said far more than any words. 

Marty Le Gros nodded. 

“You reckon it’s this bringing them down—our way,” 
he said. “That’s what Usak reckons, too. Maybe I feel 
you’re both right—now. I was a fool to give my yarn 
out. I should have held it tight, and just let you know 
quietly. Yes, I see it now. You see, I didn’t think. I 
guess I didn’t understand the temptation of it. When 
I lit on that ‘strike’ it scarcely interested me a thing, and 
I didn’t see why it should worry anybody else. I forgot 
human nature. No, it wasn’t till the gold spirit suddenly 
hit me that I realised anything. And when it did it made 
me lie—even to you.” 

Jim twisted up the neck of the bag and re-set the lash¬ 
ings about it. Then, with a regretful sigh, he passed the 
coveted treasure back to its owner. 

“Let’s see. How long is it since you handed out your 
yarn? It’s more’n two months. Two months,” he re¬ 
peated thoughtfully. “They’ve had two months on Loon 
Creek, an’ they’ve drawn blank. There—Yes, I see. 
They’re coming back on you. They started by way of 
your Mission, an’ they mean you to git a grip on their 
way of handlin’ the thing. Man, it sets my blood red hot. 
They’ve cleaned this region out of furs, an’ every other 
old trade, so I’m sittin’ around waitin’ for my people 
to close us down, and now—this. Is there no help? 
Ain’t ther’ a thing we can do? God! It makes me 
hot.” 

The blue eyes were fiercely alight. There was no 
wavering in them now. Passionate desire to fight was 
stirring in the trader. And somehow his emotion seemed 
to rob his body of its appearance of physical ungainliness. 

The missionary seemed less disturbed as he set the bag 


TWO MEN OF THE NORTH 


33 


back in his pocket. He had passed through his bad time. 
Now his decision was taken. Now he was no longer the 
missionary but a simple man of single purpose which he 
intended to put through in such way as lay within his 
power, aided by the friendship of Jim McLeod. 

A shadowy smile lit his eyes. 

“Yes. It’s the gold now,” he said, with an expressive 
gesture. “But,” he went on, with a shake of the head, 
“for the life of me I can’t get behind the minds of these 
mysterious northern—devils. Why, why in the name of 
all that’s sane and human should these Euralians descend 
on a pitiful bunch of poor, simple fisher-folk, and butcher 
and burn them off the face of the earth? It’s senseless, 
inhuman barbarity. Nothing else. If they want my 
secret, if they want the truth I denied to you as well as 
the rest, it’s here, in my head,” he said, tapping his broad 
forehead with a forefinger. “Not out there with those 
poor dead creatures who never harmed a soul on God's 
earth. If they want it they must come to me. And when 
they Come they—won’t get it.” 

The man was transformed. Not for a moment had he 
raised his voice to any tone of bravado or defiance. Cold 
decision was shining in his eyes and displayed itself in 
the clip of his jaws as he returned his pipe to his mouth. 
Jim waited. His moment of passionate protest had 
passed. He was absorbed in that which he felt was yet 
to come. 

“Here, listen, Jim,” Le Gros went on, after the briefest 
pause, with a sharp intake of breath which revealed some¬ 
thing of the reality of the emotions he was labouring 
under. “You’re my good friend, and I want to tell you 
things right here and now, to-night. That’s why I came 
over in a hurry. You’ve always known me as a mis¬ 
sionary. The man in me was kind of lost. That’s so. 


3 


34 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


But now you’ve got to know me as a man. You were 
the first I told of my ‘strike.’ You were the first I 
showed those nuggets to. And you guessed they were 
worth five thousand dollars between ’em.” 

“All o’ that. Maybe ten thousand dollars.” 

Jim’s fleshy lips fondled the words. 

“When I showed you that stuff I was the missionary. 
The thing began to fall off when I watched you looking at 
them. But it wasn’t till some of the trailmen, and even 
the Indians, heard the story, and showed their amazing 
lust for the thing I’d discovered, that I got a full grip on 
all that yellow stuff meant. Then I forgot to be a mis¬ 
sionary and was just a man the same as they were. I 
was startled, shocked. I was half scared. I saw at a 
glance I’d made a bad break in telling my story, and so, 
when you all asked me the whereabouts of the strike, 
I—lied.” 

He paused, passing a hand over his forehead, and 
smoothed back his ample black hair. 

“An’ it wasn’t Loon Creek?” 

Jim smiled as he put his question. 

“I’m glad,” he added as the other shook his head. 

“You’re glad?” 

“I surely am.” Jim spread out his hands. “Here, 
Marty,” he cried, “I was sick to death hearing you hand 
out your yarn to the boys. I kind of saw a rush for 
Loon Creek cornin’ along and beating you—an’ me—right 
out of everything. Knowing you I thought it was truth. 
But I’m mighty glad you—lied.” 

Le Gros sat back in his chair. His eyes turned from 
the man before him. 

“Knowing me?” he said, with a gentle smile of irony. 
“I wonder.” He shook his head. “I didn’t know myself. 
No, you didn’t know me. I’m different now. Quite 



TWO MEN OF THE NORTH 


35 


different. And it’s that gold changed me. Do you know 
how—why? No.” He shook his head. “I guess you 
don’t. I’ll tell you. It’s Felice. My little Felice. And 
that’s why I came right over to see you, and tell you the 
things in my mind.” 

Jim shifted his chair as the other paused. He leant 
forward with his forearms resting on his knees. The 
thought of the gold was deep in his mind. There was 
personal, selfish interest in him as well as interest for 
that which the other had to tell him about his baby, 
Felice. 

Marty drew a deep breath. His eyes turned from the 
man before him. The intensity of Jim’s regard left him 
with an added realisation of the power that gold exercises 
over the simplest, the best of humanity. 

“If I live, Jim, I’m going to let you into this ‘strike/ 
Maybe it’ll help you, and leave you free of your Com¬ 
pany,” he said gently. “You shall be in it what you folk 
call ‘fifty-fifty.’ If I die you shall be in it the same way, 
only it’ll be with my baby girl. And for that I want to 
set an obligation on you. Can you stand for an obliga¬ 
tion?” 

“Anything for you, Marty,” Jim replied at once, and 
earnestly. “Anything for you,” he repeated. “And I’ll 
put it through with the last breath of life.” 

“Good.” The missionary’s gaze came back to the 
trader’s face, and a smiling relief shone in his eyes. He 
nodded. “You see, with these wretched Euralians on 
the war path, and with me standing around in their path, 
you can never tell. Maybe I’ll live. Maybe I won’t. If 
I live you’ll be up to your neck in this ‘strike’ auyway. 
If I die you’ll work it for Felice, and hand her her ‘fifty’ 
of it when the time comes. Is it good?” 

“It’s so good I can’t tell you.” 


36 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


“Will you swear to do this, Jim ? Will you swear on— 
on the thing you hold most sacred ?” 

“I’ll swear it on the little life that’s just goin’ to be 
born to Hesther an’ me. If a thing happens to you, 
Marty, so you lose the daylight, your little Felice shall 
be seen right, and all you can wish for her shall be done, 
though you never tell me a thing of this ‘strike.’ ” 

The simple honesty looking out of Jim’s eyes eased the 
troubled heart of the older man. He nodded. 

“I knew it would be that way. I’m glad,” he said. 
“I’m not passing you thanks. No thanks could tell you 
the thing you’ve made me feel, Jim.” He laughed 
shortly. “Thanks? I guess it would be an insult when 
a boy like you is ready to set himself to carrying the 
whole of another feller’s burden.” 

Again he passed a hand over his hair. 

“This is how I’ve planned, Jim,” he went on, after a 
moment. “I’m going right back home now, and I’m 
going to pass some hours drawing out the plan and 
general map of the ‘strike.’ I’ll write it out in the last 
detail. Then I’ll set it in a sealed packet and hand it to 
you. You’ll have it, and keep it, and you won’t open it 
while I’m alive. It’s just so the thing shan’t be lost if 
they kill me up. See? If I live we’ll work this thing 
together at ‘fifty-fifty.’ That way there won’t be need 
for you to open up those plans. Do you get it? The 
whole thing is just a precaution for you and my little 
Felice. You see, if I pass over I’ve nothing else to hand 
that poor little kiddie. It’s her bit of luck.” 

Jim sat back in his chair and began to refill his pipe 
which had gone out. For some moments his stirring 
emotions prevented speech, while the smiling eyes of the 
missionary watched his busy, clumsy fingers. At last, 
however, he looked up. And as he did so he thrust the 


TWO MEN OF THE NORTH 


37 


tobacco hard into the bowl of his pipe, and the force of 
his action was no less than the headlong rush of words 
that surged to his lips. 

‘'Oh, it’s Hell! Simple Hell!” he cried passionately. 
“What have we done that we should be cursed by these 
murdering Euralians. They’re not going to get you, 
Marty. We’ve got to fix that. Come right over here. 
Quit your shanty, an’ bring Felice, an’ Pri-loo, an’ Usak 
right over here. It’s no sort of swell place, this old 
frame house the Company’s set up for me. But the 
stockade outside it stands firm twelve feet high right 
around. And I’ve guns an’ things plenty to defend it. 
I can corral plenty trailmen who’d be glad enough to 
scrap these folk, and we could fight ’em an’ beat ’em, 
till we get help from Placer where the p’lice can collect 
a posse of ‘specials.’ We’re not goin’ to sit down under 
this thing. It’s not my way. An’ it’s not goin’ to be 
your way. We’ll fight. Come right over to-morrow, 
Marty. We’ll just be crazy for you to come, and-” 

Le Gros interrupted him with a gesture. 

“That’s all right boy,” he said. “I know just how you 
feel and I’m glad. But you don’t know the thing you’re 
trying to bring on your Hesther, and your unborn baby. 
You haven’t seen the thing I’ve seen. You haven’t seen 
old men and women* butchered and mutilated, lying 
stark on the ground. You haven’t seen babes scattered 
around legless, armless, headless. And the young 
men and young women—gone.” He shook his head, 
and the horror of recollection was in his eyes. “No. 
You haven’t seen those things, and you haven’t 
remembered that I carry this curse about with me. 
Sheltering here I bring it to your door. To you, and your 
Hesther, and your babe. With me across the river there 
you’re free and safe. No. I stand or fall by my wits, 



38 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


my luck, my own efforts. You are doing for me the only 
thing I ask in safeguarding my secret and caring for little 
Felice. That’s what I ask. And you’ve promised me. 
That’s all, Jim, my friend, and now I’ll get along back 
and fix those plans.” 

He rose from his chair, tall, strong and completely 
calm. And the trader rose, too, and gazed up into the 
other’s face. 

“I’ll take all those chances, Marty,” he said deliberately. 

“And Hesther?” 

“And my unborn baby. Yes.” 

Marty Le Gros thrust out his hand and the two men 
gripped. 

“You’re a good friend, Jim. But my mind’s made up. 
While I’ve life I’ll fight my own fight. When I’m dead 
please God you’ll do—what I can’t. So long Jim,” he 
added wringing the fleshy hand he was still gripping. 
“Til be along over with those plans before you eat your 
breakfast.” 


CHAPTER V 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 

The brilliant June night was like a midsummer day. The 
deathless sun knew no rest for all the Arctic world was 
wrapt in slumber. The stillness of it all, the perfect 
quiet; it was a world of serene solitude, with only the 
sounds which came from unseen creatures, and the rusts: 
of stirred vegetation caught on a gentle zephyr, t j 
whisper of the life prevailing. 

Marty Le Gros was back in his own home. He was 
at the little table which served him for such writing as 
his work as missionary entailed. It was a simple apart¬ 
ment characteristic of the habitation he had set up. The 
walls were plastered with a dun-coloured mud smoothed 
down but retaining all its crudeness which nothing could 
disguise. The room was of considerable extent. Its 
furnishing was no less primitive than its walls, but also 
no less robust. Every article was of his own design and 
manufacture, and that which it lacked in refinement it 
made up in substance. Chairs were rawhide-strung, 
square and solid. The table had legs of saplings, and 
a top that was made from packing cases obtained from 
Jim McLeod. The ceiling above his head was of cotton. 
So were the two windows which were flung open to 
admit air through the mosquito netting beyond them. 

Yes, it was all very crude. Nevertheless it lost nothing 
of its sense of home. The floor was strewn with sun- 


39 


40 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


dried furs, and there were shelves of well-read books. 
The man’s simple sleeping bunk was curtained off in one 
comer near by to the doorway which communicated with 
a lesser room where slept his motherless child. And there 
was still another doorway which led to a third room. It 
was the kitchen place where Usak and Pri-loo slept, and 
where the latter prepared such food as was needed. 

There was no sound in the place but that of the man’s 
occasional movements and the scratching of the pen with 
which he was working. Felice was asleep in the next 
room in the cot which he and his dead wife had long 
since fashioned and adorned. Pri-loo, awaiting the 
return of her man from the reindeer farm, which was his 
work, had finally yielded her vigil and retired to her 
blankets in the kitchen. It was the calving season down 
at the farm, and as likely as not Usak would not return 
to her for many hours. 

The missionary had applied himself to his task with 
that close concentration which betokened the urgency of 
his desire. He had been at work for over an hour. Now 
he sat with his great body hunched over the table, and, 
with poised pen, was at last regarding his completed 
work. The large sheet of paper stared back at his darkly 
brooding eyes, and the careful tracery on its surface 
spread from one end of it to the other. It was the draw¬ 
ing of a wide, winding river. And along its entire course 
was dotted every detail of natural formation which his 
keen memory supplied him with. Hills were carefully 
drawn. Woodland bluffs were marked with due regard 
to their extent. Everything that could serve to guide the 
explorer was there set out. Every title for each natural 
feature was inscribed, and one wide stretch of river fore¬ 
shore was outlined in red ink and inscribed with the 
words “mouth of creek.” 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


4i 


It was complete. It was complete with that care and 
consideration which spoke of the tremendous anxiety- 
lying behind the man’s purpose. 

At last he abandoned his scrutiny and a deep sigh 
escaped him. Then he leisurely picked up his tobacco 
bag and began to fill his pipe. Leaning back in his chair 
his gaze sought the daylight beyond the window, and in 
a moment he became absorbed in profound, wakeful 
dreaming and his pipe remained forgotten. 

He had reached another great crisis in his simple life. 
He knew it. He understood to the last detail the ominous 
significance of the thing he had just completed. His 
thought began by searching ahead, but swiftly it was 
caught and flung back into the deep channels of memory 
such as never fail to claim when the heart of man is 
deeply stirred. 

A wide panorama of the past swept into his view. It 
began, as everything seemed to begin with him now, at 
that time when he and his young wife had taken their 
final decision to move northwards where their spiritual 
desires could find expression in the wilderness of untamed 
Nature. He remembered, how keenly he remembered, 
the surge of thrilling anticipation with which they had 
embarked on their mission. The bitter hardships they 
had had to endure, and the merciless labours that had 
been theirs to make even their simple lives possible here 
on the Hekor River, which followed so nearly the course 
of the Arctic Circle. He remembered the selfless kindness 
of Jim McLeod and his gentle wife. How they had 
helped him with everything that lay in their power. Yes, 
it was a happy memory which eased the strain of the 
thing besetting him now. 

Then had come that first great happiness and finally 
disaster. Jim was looking forward now to just the same 


42 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


moment in his life. That first-born child. It was an 
ineffaceable landmark in the life of any man. 

He sighed. He was contemplating again the tragedy 
which had followed hard in the wake of his overwhelm¬ 
ing happiness. Poor little Jean. Poor, poor little woman. 

Her happiness was short enough lived, and his- In 

his simple, earnest fashion he prayed God that Jim and 
Hesther should never know a similar disaster. He 
wondered if little Jean knew of the thing he was doing 
now. And if she would have approved had she been 
there to witness it. Yes. Somehow he felt that her full 
approval would have been his. It was for Felice. He 
desired nothing for himself but to be permitted to carry 
on the labours of his Mission. But for Felice- 

He stirred uneasily. The scene of his devastated 
Mission lit again before his mental gaze and tortured 
him. And suddenly he sat up and carefully folded the 
annotated map he had prepared. He finally enclosed it 
in a piece of American cloth, tied it up securely, and 
sealed it with the fragment of wax he had discovered for 
that purpose. Then he stood up and gazed about him. 
His dark eyes took in every happy detail of the home 
which had served him so long. And presently the man of 
peace found himself contemplating the cartridge belt, with 
its two great revolvers protruding from their holsters, 
which was hanging from its nail on the log wall. 

For some moments he regarded it without any change 
of expression. Then of a sudden he stirred and moved 
quickly over to it. He removed first one gun from its 
holster, then the other. He examined them. They were 
old-fashioned, and their chambers were empty. Very 
deliberately, almost reluctantly, he loaded them in each 
chamber. Then with another sigh he returned them to 
the holsters where they belonged. 




THE LUCK OF THE KID 


43 


He turned away quickly. It was as though he detested 
the thing he had just done and was anxious to rid himself 
of the memory of it. So he passed into the room which 
he had always shared with his wife, but which now was 
given up to the atom of humanity which was the priceless 
treasure of his life. 

••••••• 

The man was sitting on the stool set beside the simple 
bedcot. It was the stool which Pri-loo was wont to 
occupy when watching over the slumbers of the child she 
had taken to her mother heart. He was gazing down 
upon the sleeping babe as she lay there under the coloured 
blankets and patch-work quilt which was the daintiest 
covering with which he had been able to provide her. 

Fair-haired and sweetly cherubic the child lay breath¬ 
ing in that calm, almost imperceptible fashion so sure an 
indication of perfect health. Her colouring was exquisite. 
A subtle tracery of blue veins was plainly visible beneath 
the delicate, fair skin. She was sweetly pretty, and her 
brief four years of life had afforded her a generous 
development sufficient to satisfy the most exacting parent. 

The man’s dark eyes were infinitely tender as he re¬ 
garded the sleeping child. Gold ? There was no treasure 
in the world comparable with that, which, with her dying 
effort, his well-loved wife had presented him. Felice— 
little Felice. The smiling, prattling creature, the thought 
of whose wide blue eyes was unfailing in lightening even 
the darkest shadows which the cares of her father’s life 
imposed upon him. 

He feasted himself now on the beauty which was so 
like to that of the mother who had given up her life for 
his desire. And as he gazed a surge of deep, tender 
feeling recalled a hundred happy memories. And so for 
awhile he was filled with smiling thought. 


44 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


But it passed. It passed with a suddenness that left 
a cold dew of fear upon his brow for all the warmth of 
the Arctic summer night. For even as memory had 
transported him to the days wherein his life had known 
no shadow, so it had brought him again to the recollection 
of the scene of mutilation he had witnessed at his Mis¬ 
sion. There he had seen children, younger even than 
Felice, lying upon the ground limbless, headless, almost 
unrecognisable trunks. 

An unconscious movement stirred him, and he shook 
his head as though in denial of his thought. Then he 
gazed down upon the sealed packet he was carrying in 
his hand. For long moments he looked at it, and then, 
of a sudden, his eyes came back to the face of the sleeping 
babe, and words came in a low, tender whisper. 

“No, kiddie,” he murmured, “not while I have life. 
My poor Jean gave you to me, little bit. And you’re 
just mine. All I am in the world will defend you from 
harm such—such as—God! No. Not that. Psha! No, 
it couldn’t be.” He wiped his forehead with a hand that 
was unsteady. Then he forced a smile to his eyes just 
as he forced his fears back and strove to think of the 
thing he had spent so many hours preparing. He held 
up the packet in his hand before the child’s closed eyes. 
“This wasn’t sent my way for nothing,” he whispered. 
“It’s your luck, little kid. Yours. It’s for you, half of 
it. And—and if I should fail—well, there’s others’ll see 
you get it. My little kiddie. My little-■” 

He broke off. The man’s tender admonition died on 
his lips which closed almost with a snap. His whole 
attitude underwent a change. He sat rigid and listening, 
and his dark eyes were turned as though seeking to peer 
over his shoulder. 

. It was a sound. A sound that came from beyond the 





THE LUCK OF THE KID 


45 


outer room. It was not from the direction of the kitchen 
place where Usak might be returning home. No. It 
came from beyond the front door of the shanty which 
was not the way Usak would come. 

The missionary made no movement. Every sense was 
straining, every faculty was alert. Sounds came in the 
night. It was a common enough thing. But he had that 
in his mind now which gave to any sound in the night 
the possibility of a new interpretation. 

The moments passed. The tension eased. And again 
the father’s eyes came back to the face of the sleeping 
child. But it was only for an instant. Of a sudden he 
dropped the sealed packet into the child’s cot and leapt 
to his feet. 

Headlong he ran for the open doorway, and the 
purpose in his mind was obvious. He passed it, and ran 
for the loaded guns hanging upon the wall of his room. 
But he failed to reach them. A shot rang out and he 
stumbled. Putting forth a superhuman effort he sought 
to recover himself. But his legs gave under him and he 
crashed to the floor with the first tearful cry of his 
wakened child ringing in his ears. 


CHAPTER VI 


THE EURALIANS 

Marty Le Gros lay sprawled on the ground. He had 
scarcely moved from the position in which he had fallen. 
Pri-loo, her handsome eyes aflame with fierce anger, was 
standing just within the doorway leading to the kitchen 
place. A man stood guard over her, a small dark-skinned 
creature whose eyes slanted with a suggestion of Mongol 
obliqueness. It was obvious that she was only held silent 
under threat of the gun that her guard held ready. Two 
other dark-skinned strangers moved about the living 
room clearly searching, and a third stood looking on, 
propped against the table which served the missionary 
for writing. Beyond the movements of the searching 
men, and such disturbance as the process of their work 
entailed, and the insistent cries of the child Felice in the 
adjoining room, an ominous silence prevailed. 

The expression of the almost yellow eyes of the man 
at the table was intense with cold, deliberate purpose. It 
was without one gleam of pity for the fallen missionary. 
It was without concern for the angry woman held silent 
in the doorway. He was regarding only the movements 
of the men acting under his orders. He, like the man in 
charge of Pri-loo, was clad in the ordinary garb 
customary to whitemen of the northern trail. But the 
others, the searchers, had no such pretensions. They 

46 


THE EURALIANS 47 

were in the rough clothing native to the Eskimo when 
Arctic summer prevails. 

After awhile the terrified cries of the suddenly 
awakened Felice died down to the intermittent sobs which 
so surely claim the sympathies of the mother-heart. Even 
Pri-loo’s fierce native anger yielded before their appeal. 
Distress stirred her, and only the threatening gun held 
her from rushing to comfort the helpless babe who was 
her treasured charge. 

The great prone figure of the missionary on the ground 
stirred. It was the preliminary to returning conscious¬ 
ness. Quite abruptly his head was raised. Then, by a 
great effort, he propped himself on to his elbow and gazed 
about him. Finally his dark, troubled eyes came to rest 
on the face of the still figure of the man who stood 
regarding him. 

There was a searching pause while eye met eye. Then 
the missionary sought to moisten his lips with a tongue 
little less parched. 

“Well ?” he demanded in the low, husky voice of a man 
whose strength is rapidly waning. 

The man at the table turned to the searchers whose task 
seemed complete. 

“Nothing?” he said. And his tone was almost with¬ 
out question. 

One of the searchers offered a negative gesture. There 
was no verbal reply. 

“So.” 

The man at the table inclined his dark, close-cropped 
head and turned again to the man on the ground. 

“You’re going to tell us of that gold ‘strike,’ Le Gros,” 
he said simply, without the slightest sign of foreign or 
native accent. “You’re going to tell us right away. 
Because if you don’t we’ve a way of making you. Do 


48 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


you get that? You’d better get it. It’ll be easier for you 
and for those belonging to you. We’ve come many miles 
to hear about that ‘strike,’ and we aren’t returning empty- 
handed. Do you fancy handing your story? Or-” 

“You’ll get nothing from me.” 

Marty Le Gros’ voice had suddenly become harsh and 
furious. All his ebbing strength was flung into his 
retort. 

The man with the cold eyes shook his head. 

“I shall,” he said, with calm decision. “I’m not here 
to ask twice. You’ve seen the—remains—of your Mis¬ 
sion, ’way up the river. Doesn’t' that tell you about 
things? It should—if you have sense.” 

The man’s threat was the more deeply sinister for the 
. frigidity of his tone. 

The missionary’s eyes lit. For all his growing weak¬ 
ness, for all the suffering the wound in his side was 
causing him, a tinge of hot colour mounted to his pallid 
cheeks. 

“I tell you you’ll get nothing from me,” he said, and 
the strength of his voice had ominously lessened. He 
raised his body till he was supporting himself on one 
hand which rested in the pool of his own life-blood stain¬ 
ing the earthen floor. His dark eyes were fiercely de¬ 
fiant as they gazed up at the other. 

The Euralian leader nodded. 

“We’ll see.” Then he pointed at Pri-loo standing in 
the doorway watching the pitiful duel, hardly realising 
the full meaning of what she beheld. “You see her ? 
Watch!” 

There was a sign. It was given on the instant. And 
the dying man gasped in horror. 

“Your woman, eh?” The Euralian went on. “Well, 
she won’t be any longer. Are you going to—speak?” 



THE EURALIANS 


49 

"‘She’s not my woman. She’s the wife of Usak. If 
—if you harm her it’s—it’s sheer, wanton-” 

The words died on the missionary’s lips. There was a 
sharp report. It was the gun of the man guarding Pri- 
loo fired at close range. It rang out tremendously in the 
narrow confines of the room. The foster-mother of 
Felice was shot through the head, which was completely 
shattered. The poor dead creature dropped where she 
stood, without a sound, without a cry. To the last mo¬ 
ment of her staunch life her angry eyes had defied her 
captors. 

The dying missionary reeled. He would have fallen 
again to the ground. But the searchers were beside him, 
and they seized and held him lest he should miss a single 
detail of that which was intended for his infliction. 

“Are you going to—say about it?” 

The Euralian’s eyes lit as he made his taunting demand. 
The tearful cries of the terrified Felice were again raised 
in response to the deafening report of the gun that had 
slain her foster-mother. 

But Marty Le Gros’ strength was oozing through the 
wound that had laid him low. The shock of the hideous 
massacre of the helpless Pri-loo was overwhelming. Con¬ 
sciousness was nearing its extremity. 

“Not a word.” 

The retort was whispered. The missionary had no 
strength for more. 

The man at the table bestirred himself. Perhaps he 
realised that opportunity was slipping away from him. 
A swift, imperative sign to the youth who had slain 
Pri-loo, and the next moment he had passed into the 
room whence came the redoubled cries of the distracted 
Felice. 

The closing eyes of the dying man widened on the 


4 




50 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


instant. A surge of hopeless terror stared out of their 
dark depths. His lolling head was lifted erect and it 
turned in the direction of the door through which the 
Euralian had vanished. In supreme anguish he realised 
the thing contemplated. His child! Felice! In a spasm 
of recollection he saw again the headless trunks of the 
children of his Mission. The man at the table was 
forgotten. His own sufferings. Even he had forgotten 
the thing he was trying to safeguard. Felice! His babe! 
They- 

“If the woman wasn’t yours, Le Gros, the child is,” 
the man at the table taunted. “Well? Will you—talk?” 

The terrible yellow eyes were irresistible. There was 
no escape from them. And Marty Le Gros forgot every¬ 
thing but the anguish which the taunt inspired. 

“Not her! Not that!” he cried. “Yes,” he went on 

urgently. “You can have it. For God’s sake spare-” 

He gasped and his head lolled helplessly. But again he 
rallied. 

“The plans? The plans you made to-night? Where 
are they? Quick!” 

The man at the table had moved. He had approached 
his victim. His voice was fiercely urgent for he realised 
the thing that was happening. 

“They’re—there,” Marty Le Gros gasped. “They’re— 
in—her—” 

It was his supreme effort, and it remained uncom¬ 
pleted. His words died away in a gasping jumble of 
sounds that rattled in his throat. For one brief spasm 
his arms struggled with the men supporting him. Then 
his head lolled forward again, and his body limpened. 
A moment later the supporting hands were removed and 
Marty Le Gros fell back on the ground—dead. 




THE EURALIANS 


5i 


The yellow eyes of the leader were turned on the 
young man who had just re-entered the room bearing in 
his arms the screaming Felice. 

“Too late,” he said coldly. “You’ve blundered, Sate. 
It was that clumsy shot of yours. Maybe you’ll learn 
someday. Tcha!” 

Sate dropped the screaming child roughly to the 
ground. His black eyes sparkled. There was triumph 
as well as resentment in them. 

“That so? Oh, yes. Well, here are the plans. He 
sealed them when they were finished. We saw that. 
Eh?” 

He held out the packet he had found in Felice’s cot, 
and the older man accepted it without a sign. In a mo¬ 
ment he withdrew a sheath knife and severed the fasten¬ 
ings. Flinging off the outer cover he unfolded the 
contents. A glance was sufficient and he looked up with¬ 
out a smile. 

“Set fire to the place,” he ordered coldly. 

Then he glanced down at the dead man. Felice had 
crawled up close to the body of her father. Her baby 
arms were thrust about his neck as though clinging to 
him for protection. Or maybe it was only in that fond 
baby fashion she had long since learned. Her cries had 
wholly ceased. Even in death the comfort of her father’s 
presence and proximity were all sufficient to banish her 
every terror. 

“Take her out,” he ordered, without a shadow of 
softening. “Set her somewhere near by in the bluff. 
Maybe the folk across the river will come along and find 
her when they see the fire. If they don’t, well, maybe 
the—wolves will.” 


52 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


Usak gazed about him in a hopeless amazement. He 
was standing before the smoking remains of Marty 
Le Gros’ Mission. He had hastened home from the 
farm which lay several miles away to the east. In the 
midst of his work amongst his herd of reindeer he had 
suddenly observed the smoke cloud lolling heavily upon 
the near horizon, and without a moment’s hesitation he 
had abandoned the new-born fawn he was attending to 
ascertain its cause. 

He had been filled with alarm at the sight. There was 
nothing he knew of in the neighbourhood to fire but the 
bluff that sheltered the Mission and the house itself. So 
he had come at once at a speed that only he could have 
achieved. 

His worst fears were realised. It was not the shelter¬ 
ing bluff. That was still standing. It was the house 
itself, that home which had been his shelter as well as 
that of those others. 

For some moments he contemplated the scene without 
any attempt at active investigation. It almost seemed 
as if his keen wit had somehow become dulled under the 
shock of his discovery. Just at first it was the fire itself 
that pre-occupied. Somehow he did not associate it with 
disaster to the occupants. That did not occur to him. 
Doubtless at the back of his mind lay the conviction 
that the missionary, and Pri-loo, and little Felice had 
crossed the river and gone to McLeod’s store for shelter. 
That was at first. 

A light breeze drifted the smoke down upon him. For 
a moment he was enveloped in it. Then it passed. A 
fresh current of wind—a cross current—drifted it back 
whence it came, and the man which the passing of the 
smoke revealed had somehow been transformed. 

Amazement was no longer in his black eyes. They 


THE EURALIANS 


53 


were alight and burning with a passion of anxiety. That 
cloud of smoke had borne upon his sensitive nostrils the 
smell of burning flesh. 

Usak moved up to the charred walls. They were hot 
and smoking. Most of them were in a state of wreckage, 
for the roof had fallen and many of the logs had crashed 
from the tops of the walls. He passed round them, a 
swift-moving, silent figure seeking access where the 
smouldering fire would permit. The back door of the 
kitchen-place was impossible. Flames were still devour¬ 
ing that which remained. The windows were surrounded 
with hot, fiery timbers. The front door giving on to the 
sitting room alone seemed possible. But here again was 
fire, though it had almost burnt out. 

But the man’s mood was not such as to leave him 
standing before obstacles. In his half savage heart was 
a native terror of fire. But just now all that was com¬ 
pletely overborne by emotions that were irresistible. The 
smell of burning flesh was strong in his nostrils, he even 
fancied he could taste something of it on his lips. 

Just for one instant he paused before the doorway 
measuring the chances of it all. Then he leapt forward 
and vanished into the smoking ruin. 

• • • • • • • 

Jim McLeod was standing in the doorway of his store. 
He had been roused from sleep by a furious hammering 
on the door. He had flung on a heavy skin coat over his 
night clothes and hastily thrust a gun in each pocket of 
it. Then he had cautiously proceeded to investigate, for 
the memory of his long talk with Marty Le Gros was 
still with him. 

But his apprehensions had been swiftly allayed, or at 
least changed, for the harsh deep tones of Usak had 
replied to his challenge through the barred door. 


54 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


Now he was listening to the thing the Indian had to 
say and the horror of the story he listened to found re¬ 
flection in his pale blue eyes. 

“They’ve killed ’em an’ burnt ’em out?” he cried in¬ 
credulously as the furious man broke off the torrent of 
the first rush of his story. 

Usak’s black eyes were aflame with a light that was 
bordering on frenzy. The infant Felice, wrapped in a 
blanket, was in his arms and clinging to him with her 
tiny arms about the man’s trunk-like neck, silent, wide- 
eyed, but content with a presence understood and loved. 

“Here I tell you. I tell you quick so no time is lost. 
I work by the farm all night. So. It is the season when 
I work that way. The young deer need me. Oh, yes. 
So I work. Then I mak look up in the corral. There 
is smoke to the west. Smoke. I look some more, an’ I 
think quick. Smoke? Fire? What burns that way? 
Two things, maybe. The bluff. The house of Marty Le 
Gros. So I mak quick getaway. Oh, yes. Very quick. 
Then I come by the house. It all burn. Yes. No house. 
Only burning logs all break up. So I stand an’ think. 
An’ while I stand I smell. So. I smell the cooking of 
meat. Meat. First I have think Marty an’ Pri-loo mak 
big getaway to here. Then, when I smell this thing, I 
think—no. Not getaway.” 

“They were—burnt?” 

Jim’s horror added fuel to the fire of Usak’s surging 
frenzy. He nodded. 

“Yes. They burn. They bum all up. But not so they 
die. Oh, no.” The Indian shook his head, and the 
brooding light in his black eyes suddenly blazed up afresh. 
“Listen,” he cried, in his fierce way. “I tell you. I— 
Usak. I see him all. I go mad. Oh, yes. I think of 
Pri-loo. I think of little Felice. I think of the good 


THE EURALIANS 


55 


Marty. So I go into the house just wher’ I can, I go 
by the door which him burn right out. Then I find ’em. 
Then I find ’em all dead. An’ the fire cook ’em lak— 
meat.” 

The great rough creature thrust the greasy fur cap 
back from his forehead. There was sweat on his low 
brow. But it was the sweat inspired by his fierce 
emotions. 

He turned away in desperation, and so his black eyes 
were hidden from the search of the trader’s. A curious 
feeling of helplessness in the midst of the storm of rage 
besetting him threatened overwhelming. There was a 
moment even when the soft arms about his neck seemed 
to be stifling him. But his weakness passed in a flash. 
The next moment the furious onslaught of the savage in 
him held sway. 

“But the fire not kill him,” he cried, his tone lowered to 
something like a snarl of savagery. “I look. I find ’em, 
Pri-loo. My woman. I find her, yes, an 5 I think I go 
crazy sure. They kill her—my woman. My good 
woman. They shoot her by the head. It all break up. 
Oh, yes. My woman. They kill her—dead.” His voice 
died out and his black eyes were turned away again to 
hide that which looked out of them. But in a moment 
he went on. “Then I find him. The good boss, Marty. 
Him belly all shoot to pieces. Oh, yes. They kill him all 
up dead, too. Then I look for Felice. Little Felice.” 
His arms tightened about the child nestling against his 
shoulder. “No Felice. She all gone. I think maybe 
they eat her. I think. I look. No. No Felice. So 
I go out an’ think some more. I stand by bluff. Then I 
find ’em. She mak big cry out. She by the bluff. So I 
find her. They throw her in the bush in the blanket of 
my woman, Pri-loo.” 


56 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


The man paused again and a deep breath said far more 
of the thing he was enduring than his words told. After 
a moment he nodded his head, and his lank, black hair 
brushed the fair face of the child in his arms. 

“So I bring her, an’ you tak her. You, an’ your good 
whitewoman tak her like your own. I go. I find this 
Euralian mans. I know ’em wher’ they camp. Oh, 
yes. Usak big hunter. Shoot plenty much good. I 
kill ’em all up dead. They kill ’em my woman, Pri-loo. 
My good woman. They kill ’em my good boss, Marty. 
So I kill ’em, too. Now I go. You tak Felice. Bimeby 
I come back when all Euralian kill dead. Then I tak 
Felice. I raise her like the good boss, by the farm. It 
for her. Yes. That farm. Marty love little Felice all 
the time. He mak all good thing for Felice. So I mak 
same all good thing, too. That so.” 

Jim McLeod made no attempt to reply. Somehow it 
seemed impossible even to offer comment in face of the 
terrible story the man had brought to him, and the simple 
irrevocable purpose in his spoken determination. He 
held out his arms to receive the murdered man’s child, 
and Usak, with infinite gentleness, released himself from 
the clinging arms so reluctant to part from him. 

“You tak ’em. Yes,” he said as he passed the babe 
over. “Bimeby I come back. Sure.” 

Jim folded the child to his broad bosom in clumsy, un¬ 
accustomed fashion. He was hardly conscious of the 
thing he did. His horrified imagination was absorbed 
by the terrible scene he was witnessing through the eyes 
of the Indian. Quite suddenly his mind leapt back to the 
thing Marty had intended and had been at such pains to 
discuss with him, and his question came on the instant. 

“Everything? Everything was burnt out? There was 
nothing left? Books? Papers?” 


THE EURALIANS 


57 


“Him all burn up. Oh yes.” 

Felice began to cry. In a moment her little chubby 
hands were beating her protest against the broad bosom 
of the trader. The sight of her rebellion somehow had 
a softening effect on the coloured man, and he spoke in 
a manner and in a tone of gentleness which must have 
seemed impossible in him a moment before. 

But even his encouragement was without effect. The 
child’s cries rose to a fierce, healthly pitch of screaming 
which promptly called forth protest from the trail dogs 
about the camps within the stockade. For some moments 
pandemonium reigned, and in the midst of it the voice 
of Hesther, who had hurried from her bed, brought 
comfort to her helpless husband. 

“For goodness’ sake!” she cried at the sight of the 
terrified child in her husband’s arms. “Are you crazy, 
Jim, havin’ that pore baby gal—Felice? Little Felice? 
Say, what—? Here, pass her to me.” 

The trader made no demur. In a moment the dis¬ 
tracted child was exchanged into his wife’s outstretched 
arms which tenderly embraced and snuggled her close 
to her soft motherly bosom. 

The men looked on held silent by Hesther’s presence. 

The child’s cries were quickly hushed, and the dogs 
abandoned their savage, responsive chorus. Flesther 
looked searchingly up into Jim’s troubled face. Then 
her gentle, inquiring eyes passed on to scrutinize the face 
of the Indian. 

“Tell me,” she demanded. And her words were 
addressed to Usak, as she rocked the child to and fro in 
her arms. 

But Usak was reluctant. He averted his gaze while 
the whiteman became pre-occupied with the broad ex¬ 
panse of the river beyond the gateway of the stockade. 



58 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


“Something's happened," she went on urgently. “What 
is it? I've got to know. I shall know it later, anyhow, 
Jim!” 

The trader shook his head. But it was different with 
the Indian. His eyes came back to the woman’s face and 
he nodded. 

“Sure. You know him bimeby," he said quietly. 
“Maybe your man tell him all now. I tell him. He 
know this thing. Yes. Now I go. I go hunt all him 
Euralian mans. I find ’em. I kill ’em all up dead, same 
lak him kill up Pri-loo, an’ my good boss, Marty. I 
go now. Bimeby I come back, an’ I mak all good thing 
for little Felice. I not come back, then you mak raise 
’em Felice lak your child. That so." 


CHAPTER VII 


THE VENGEANCE OF USAK 

The towering Alaskan hills overshadowed the broad 
waterway of the Hekor River. From the level of the 
water the shores rose up monstrously. There were precipi¬ 
tate, sterile, encompassing walls of granite that rose 
hundreds of feet without a break. And back of them, 
mounting by dizzy slopes, the great hills raised their snow- 
crowned crests till the misty cloud line enveloped them. 
The world was grey, and dark, and something overwhelm¬ 
ing towards the headwaters of the great river. It was a 
territory barren of everything but the tattered clothing of 
scattered primordial forest bluffs clinging to sheer slopes, 
or safely engulfed in the shelter of deep, shadowed 
ravines. It was a scene of crude grandeur in which 
Nature had designed no place for man. 

Yet man refused Her denial. Man with his simple 
skill and profound daring. No rampart set up by Nature 
was sufficient to bar the way. 

A small kyak was driving against the stream of waters 
surging at its prow. It was driven with irresistible skill 
and power, for the man at the paddle was consuming 
with passionate desire and purpose. For days and days 
he had driven on up against a stream that was growing 
in speed with every passing mile. He knew the thing 
confronting him. He knew every inch of the great 
waterway’s rugged course. Every shoal, every rapid 

59 


6o 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


was an open book to him. So, too, were the shelters and 
easements where the stream yielded its strength. The 
man behind the paddle faced his task with the supreme 
confidence of knowledge and conscious power. And so 
he neared the canyon of the Grand Falls without the 
smallest perturbation. 

A mere speck in the immensity of its surrounding the 
kyak glided on. Here it rocked on a ruffled surface, 
there it passed, perfectly poised, a ghostly shadow upon 
a smooth mirror-like surface. The dip of the man’s 
paddle was precise and rhythmic. Every ounce of 
strength was in every stroke, and every stroke yielded its 
full of propulsion. For Usak was a master of river craft, 
and understood the needs of the journey that still lay 
ahead of him. 

His goal was still far off. It was less than a day since 
he had crossed the unmarked border which opened the 
gates of Alaska to him. He knew there must be more 
than another nightless day pass before he reached the 
toilsome portage where stood the mighty Falls which 
emptied themselves from the summit of the barrier which 
he had yet to scale. The goal he sought lay hidden away 
up amidst those high lands where the drainings of the 
snow-clad hills foregathered before hurling themselves 
to feed the river below. But time mattered nothing to 
his Indian mind. He asked nothing of the great world 
about him. He sought no favours or clemency. The 
spur of his savage heart drove him, and death alone could 
deny him. As he had already driven throughout the 
endless Arctic days so he would continue to drive until 
his task was accomplished. 

The man’s dark face was hard bitten by his mood. 
Fierce resolve looked out of eyes that brooded as he gazed 
alertly over the waters. The soul of the man was afire 



THE VENGEANCE OF USAK 


6l 


with the instincts and desires of centuries of savage for¬ 
bears, just as his mental faculties were similarly keyed for 
their achievement. 

Not a detail of the world about him that might affect 
his labours escaped the eagle vision of his wide eyes, and 
his swift understanding taught him how to avail himself 
of every clemency which the scheme of Nature vouch¬ 
safed. 

So the kyak progressed seemingly with inadequate 
speed, but in reality little less swiftly than the speed of 
the avenging creature’s desire. It gained incredible way 
against the surge of water that split upon its prow. And 
as the shadows of the mighty walls enveloped it, and grew 
ever more and more threatening, the man at the paddle 
laboured on without pause or hesitation, certain of the 
course, certain of his powers, certain that no earthly 
barrier was staunch enough to seriously obstruct him. 


The kyak was hauled out of the water. It lay there on 
a shelving foreshore strewn with grey, broken granite, a 
graceful thing, so small and light as to look utterly inade¬ 
quate in face of the terrific race of troubled waters that 
was speeding by. It was set ready for the portage. The 
man’s simple outfit was securely lashed amidships, and 
his precious rifle, long old-fashioned, but well cared for, 
was made fast to the struts that held the frail craft to its 
shape. 

The Indian was standing at the water’s edge. He was 
gazing up-river where its course was a dead straight can¬ 
yon several miles in length. It was wide, tremendously 
wide. But so high were its sides that its breadth became 
dwarfed. It was a gloomy, threatening passage of black, 
broken water, whose rushing torrent no canoe could face. 


62 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


But the awe of the scene left Usak untouched. It was 
not the sheer cliffs that concerned him. It was not the 
swirling race of water blackened by the shadows. It was 
neither the might of the great river, nor the vastness of 
the hill country about it that pre-occupied him. It was 
the far-off white wall of mist and spray at the head of 
the passage, and the dull distant thunder of the Falls, the 
Grand Falls, the picture of whose might had lain hidden 
from the eyes of man throughout the centuries. 

He stood for long contemplating the mysterious far-off. 
His object was uncertain. Perhaps the wonder of it had 
power to stir him. Perhaps he was not insensible to the 
might of the things about him for all the absorbing pas¬ 
sion that filled him. Perhaps he was contemplating with 
a sense of triumph this last barrier which still remained 
to be surmounted. 

At last he turned away. He came back to the burden 
which he knew he had to shoulder. He measured the little 
vessel, and the stowage of his outfit, with a keen eye for 
the necessity of his work. And that which had been done 
left him completely satisfied. 

He bent down. He gripped the gunwale of the little 
craft and tilted it. Then with a swift, twisting move¬ 
ment he lifted, and, rearing his great body erect again, 
the vessel was safely set where his muscular neck checked 
it to a perfect balance. 

© o • « • «. 9 

It was the wide smooth waters of a high perched moun¬ 
tain lake. Its expanse was dwarfed by the great hills on 
every hand. Its surface shone like a mirror in the bril¬ 
liant sunshine, yet it was without one single grace to 
temper the fierce austerity of its tremendous setting. On 
the hillsides there were dark veins which suggested the 
tattered remnants of Nature’s effort to clothe their naked 


THE VENGEANCE OF USAK 


63 

sides. There were low fringes of attenuated vegetation 
marking the line where land and water met. But the 
main aspect was one of barren hills crowned about their 
lofty summits with eternal snow, and the grey fields of 
glacial ice that never entirely yielded up possession of 
the earth they held prisoned. 

Usak’s kyak was hugging the southern shore. Now 
his paddle dipped leisurely, for he had no stream with 
which to battle and his eyes were searching every yard 
of the dishevelled scrub which screened the shore. 

Slowly the little craft crept on. There was no uncer¬ 
tainty in its progress. It was simply that the man sought 
for the thing he knew he would find and had no desire to 
waste a single moment of precious time through careless 
oversight. 

He was rounding a headland. The fringe of scrub had 
faded out, leaving only the grey rock that sank sheer into 
the depths of the water. In a moment he flung power 
into the dip of his paddle and the kyak shot ahead. 
There was current here. Swift, crossing current that 
strove to head his craft put for the bosom of the lake. 
The man counted with prompt skill, and a savage satis¬ 
faction shone in his eyes. 

Passing the headland he gazed upon the thing he had 
been searching. It was a narrow inlet debouching from 
a wide rift in the rampart of hills. 

In a moment his vessel shot head on to the current. 
Then, swiftly, it passed from view of the open lake be¬ 
tween the sheltered banks which were heavily overgrown 
by unbroken stretches of dense pine-wood blufifs. 

• e • • • • o 

An amazing transformation left the sterile setting of 
the mountain lake forgotten. Farther and farther, deeper 
and deeper into the hills the country seemed to change as 


64 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


by magic. East and west of the valley the hills rose up 
sheltering the gracious vegetation that looked to belong 
to latitudes hundreds of miles to the south, and a heat 
prevailed that was even greater than the intemperate 
Arctic summer. 

Usak needed no explanation of the phenomenon. He 
knew that he was in the region of the great Fire Hills of 
the North. Hills that were always burning, whether in 
the depths of winter or the height of summer. And the 
heat of the earthly fires transformed the countryside into 
an oasis of verdant charm, a jewel of Nature set in the 
cold iron of the North. 


A large habitation stood in the heart of a wide clearing 
in the forest. It was deep hidden from the waterway 
which split up the length of the valley. Nearly a mile of 
narrow roadway cut through the forest alone gave access 
to the river. And the course of the roadway was winding, 
and its debouchment on the river was left screened with 
trees. The object of the latter must have been clear to 
the simplest mind. A perfect secrecy had been achieved, 
and the great house lay hidden within the forest. 

It was a remarkable building whose only relation to 
the country in which it stood was the material of its con¬ 
struction. Its two lofty stories were built of lateral, 
rough-hewn green logs. It was of logs carefully dove¬ 
tailed, from the ground to the summit of a central tower 
which rose to the height of the forest trees about it. Its 
walls rambled over a wide extent of ground, and dotted 
about its main building were a number of lesser buildings, 
both habitations and accommodation for material. It was 
rather like a log-built feudal fortress surrounded by, and 
protecting, the homes of its workers and dependents. 

A figure was moving cautiously through the woods be- 


THE VENGEANCE OF USAK 


65 

yond the clearing. The moccasined feet gave out no 
sound as it passed from tree to tree or sought the shelter 
of such dense clumps of undergrowth as presented them¬ 
selves. The buckskin-clad creature crouched low as he 
moved, and the colour of his garments seemed to merge 
itself into the general hue about him. Now and again he 
paused for long contemplative moments. And in these 
he searched closely with keen, purposeful black eyes that 
nothing escaped. 

He was seeking every sign of life the place might 
afford. And so far he had discovered none. There were 
one or two prowling dogs, great husky, trail dogs, search¬ 
ing leisurely for that offal which seems to be the sole pur¬ 
pose of their resting moments, but that was all. 

He was gazing upon the main frontage of the building 
which faced the south with a long, deep, heavily con¬ 
structed verandah running its entire length. The several 
windows which gave on to it, covered with mosquito 
netting, were wide open to admit such cooling breeze as 
might chance in the heat of the day. But the rich curtains 
hung limply over them undisturbed by the slightest move¬ 
ment. It was the same with the windows of the upper 
story. They, too, were wide open, but again the curtains 
were unmoving. The searcher’s eyes passed over the 
lounging chairs on the verandah. None were occupied, 
yet each and all looked to be standing ready. 

He passed on. Making a wide detour within the shel¬ 
ter of the woods he passed round to the western side of 
the building. Here there were other habitations. Many 
were mere log shanties, cabins such as the searcher knew 
by heart. The cabin of whiteman or coloured in a coun¬ 
try where makeshift ruled. 

Again there was no sign of life. There was not even a 
dog prowling loose in this direction. Maybe those who 


5 


66 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


peopled these cabins were resting in the heat. Maybe— 
but the searching man was concerned with no such specu¬ 
lation. The thing was largely as he had expected to find 
it, but he desired to re-assure himself. He moved on 
rapidly. From every point of the compass his searching 
eyes surveyed the scene, and finally he came back to the 
spot where his prolonged search had started. He was 
satisfied. 

He stood for a moment while he made his final prepara¬ 
tions. They were simple, savagely simple. He moved 
the belt about his waist, and the two long hunting knives 
thrusting from their sheaths were brought to the front 
where they remained ready to each hand. Then he thrust 
one hand into a voluminous pocket in his buckskin and 
withdrew a heavy pistol. It was a modern pistol, such as 
one would hardly expect to find in the dark-skinned hands 
of the native bred. This he examined with care and de¬ 
liberation. Then he thrust it back whence it came, and 
moved swiftly out into the open. 

The quick eyes of a scavenging dog discovered him 
and a low snarl accompanied the canine discovery. In¬ 
stantly a well-aimed stone silenced the creature and sent 
it slinking to cover. 

The point the man had selected for his approach had 
been deliberately chosen. It was a door that stood ajar 
on the north side of the house. It obviously admitted to 
the kitchen place of the building. 

With the vanishing of the man through the doorway 
the lifelessness of the place which had been momentarily 
broken descended upon it again. The still air hummed 
with the somnolent drone of myriads of winged insects. 
The hush of the surrounding forest seemed to crowd 
down upon it. The very breathlessness of the day seemed 
to suggest the utter impossibility of stirring life. 


THE VENGEANCE OF USAK 


6 7 


After a moment, the deathly silence was broken. A 
sound came hard in the wake of the passing man. It was 
a curious, half-stifled cry, and it came from the direction 
of the open doorway. It was low, inarticulate, but it was 
human. It suggested much and betrayed nothing. Then 
as it died out the engulfing silence descended once more 
and it remained unbroken. 


The wide central hall was unlit by any visible window, 
yet the light was perfectly distributed and ample. Fur¬ 
thermore it was the light of day without one gleam of the 
dazzling sunshine. 

It was a spacious apartment, lofty and square. Its 
walls were covered with rich hangings of simple eastern 
design. They were unusually tasteful and delicate, and 
obviously the handiwork of home manufacture. The 
floor of the room was of polished yellow pine littered 
with a wealth of natural furs without any mountings. 
Every skin was native to the north of Alaska, and the 
variety was extensive. In the centre of the room stood 
a large, open, log fire set up on a built hearth, above which 
rose a chimney passing straight up through the timbered 
ceiling in the fashion of an inverted funnel. For all the 
summer heat the fire was alight, smouldering pleasantly, 
a heap of white wood ash yielding a delightful aroma as 
the thin spiral of smoke drifted leisurely up into the 
mouth of the funnel above it. 

About the walls stood several low couches. They 
were loaded with silken cushions adorned in a fashion 
similar to the hangings upon the wall with a lavish dis¬ 
play of the representations of brilliant-hued flowers, and 
birds, amongst which chrysanthemum, wistaria, and long¬ 
billed, long-legged storks were very prominent. 


68 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


The only other furnishings in the place were a magnifL 
cent pair of oriental vases standing on carved wood 
plinths, a large bookcase, that was also a desk with an 
armchair before it, and two great, manifold wooden 
screens with elaborate, incised designs decorating their 
panels. 

In the shelter of one of the latter a small woman was 
seated on a couch surrounded by the materials of the deli¬ 
cate embroidery she was engaged upon. She was seated 
with her feet tucked under her, and a book lay in her 
lap. But she was neither reading nor sewing now. Her 
dark eyes were raised alertly. They were gazing steadily 
at an angle of the room where a curtain hung in heavy 
folds over what was clearly a doorway. 

The solitary occupant of the room was not young. She 
was nearing middle life, yet she bore small enough traces 
of her years. She was pretty for all the large tortoise-shell 
rimmed glasses she was wearing. Her jet black hair, 
dressed closely to her shapely head, bore not a trace of 
greying, and the small mouth and softly tinted cheeks 
were as fresh and delicate as a young girl’s. 

At the moment a keen look of enquiry was revealed 
through her large glasses as she regarded the covered 
doorway. Nor was her look without a suggestion of un¬ 
ease. For a sound had reached her a moment before, 
which, in the silence of the house about her, had suggested 
a cry—a cry of pain. Even a call for help. 

Apparently, however, she dismissed the idea. For she 
presently bent over the work she had laid aside in the 
interest of the book she had been reading. 

She was not easily disturbed. She was accustomed to 
long periods of almost complete solitude. There were 
two servants in the house. She knew that. Men who 
were fully capable of safeguarding the place, even though 


THE VENGEANCE OF USAK 


69 


the rest of the folk were abroad on their labours. No. A 
long life in the remote fastnesses of the northern Alaskan 
hills had taught her many things, and amongst the things 
she had learnt was that perfect immunity from intrusion 
was vouchsafed to the home which had been provided for 
her. There were times, even, when she felt that her lot 
resembled that of a closely guarded prisoner. 

She plied her needle with the skill and rapidity of long 
practice. The chrysanthemum she was working was 
rapidly developing its full beauty under her delicate hands. 
Then suddenly she dropped her hands into her lap and 
raised her eyes again to the doorway. 

There was no mistaking her expression now. A voice¬ 
less alarm gazed out through her glasses. There was a 
sound of hurried approach. Someone was running be¬ 
yond the doorway. They were approaching- 

The curtain was abruptly dragged aside. A man 
lurched into the room. He was a smallish, elderly man, 
dark-skinned and eastern-looking. He was clad in the 
ordinary garments of civilization, and wore a short apron 
about his waist. He stood for a moment clinging to the 
curtain for support. Agony looked out of his black eyes, 
and his lined face was distorted. He sought to make a 
gesture with one hand and nearly fell. Then a sound 
broke from his lips. It was one word. Only one. And 
that barely articulate. 

“Es—cape!” he cried. 

With a last gasping effort his hand released its hold on 
the curtain and he crashed to the floor. And as he fell 
a stream of blood trickled on to the immaculate wood¬ 
work from somewhere in the region of his neck. 

The woman was on her feet. A wild panic shone in 
the eyes behind her glasses. She stood there a pretty, 
pathetic, helpless little figure. 



7o 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


Escape! 

The word was ringing in her ears as she gazed in 
horror upon the still, fallen figure of the man who had 
brought her warning as the last faithful act of his life. 

Escape! What did it mean ? What could it mean ? 

She abruptly turned away. She bent down and 
gathered up her sewing and her book. Then she passed 
rapidly behind the screen which sheltered her couch. 
Only for one instant did she pause before passing out of 
view. It was to regard again, with a gaze that was filled 
with horror and terror, the poor thing that had brought 
her warning. 


o O • • o • • 

Usak was standing in the middle of the great room* 
He was gazing about him. His dark eyes were aflame 
with furious desire. His great body bulked enormously 
and his rough clothing left him a sinister figure in a place 
of such lavish refinement. 

He took in every detail of the place, and at last his 
fierce eyes came to rest on the dead creature lying just 
within the doorway. He stared at it without pity or re¬ 
morse. Without a sign of added emotion. His thin lips 
were shut tight and the muscles of his jaws stood out with 
the intensity of their grip. That was all. 

After awhile he moved away. He passed over to the 
couch sheltered by the screen. He bent over it searching 
closely, and from among the cushions drew some frag¬ 
ments of sewing silk and cuttings of material. He gazed 
at them. But he was not thinking of them. He was 
thinking of another woman, a woman whose hands had 
been accustomed to ply a needle, and to cut out material. 
But the material was different. It was less refined, 
rougher. In Usak’s mind Pri-loo’s sewing was mostly to 


THE VENGEANCE OF USAK 71 

do with the buckskin and beads so dear to the Indian 
heart. 

He flung the things aside. Then he hurried from the 
room, passing again the doorway through which he had 
followed the man he had slain. 


CHAPTER VIII 

THE VALLEY OF THE FIRE HILLS 

The sun blazed down on a silent world. The glare was 
merciless, and the heat, by reason of the weight of mois¬ 
ture saturating the atmosphere of the valley, was almost 
a torture. 

The stillness of the world was awesome. The hum of 
insect life accentuated it, and so, too, with the murmur of 
summer waters, which is the real music of the silent 
places. The breathlessness of it all suggested suspense, 
threat. So it is always in the great hill countries. The 
sense of threat is ever present to the human mind, driv¬ 
ing men to seek companionship, even if it be only associa¬ 
tion with the creatures who are there to bear his burdens. 

Threat was stirring acutely now. It was in the pro¬ 
found quiet, in the saturating heat; it was in the porten¬ 
tous silence wrapt about the hidden habitation which the 
man at the water’s edge had just left behind him. 

Leaning on his old-fashioned rifle the Indian, Usak, 
was gazing out northwards over the winding course of 
the river. His dark eyes were alert, fiercely alert. No 
detail of the scene escaped his searching gaze as he fol¬ 
lowed the little water-course on its way to the mountain 
lake beyond. He searched it closely right up to the great 
bend where stood the three isolated fire hills. His Indian 
mind was calculating; it was seeking answers to doubts 


72 


THE VALLEY OF THE FIRE HILLS 73 


and questions besetting him. For he knew that on the 
result of his right thinking now depended the achieve¬ 
ment he had marked out for himself. 

Quite motionless he stood for many minutes. Yet for 
all his great height and the physical strength of his 
muscular body his presence was without effect upon the 
immense solitude of the world about him. It had no 
more impression than had one single creature amongst 
the myriads of flies and mosquitoes swarming hungrily 
about his dark head. 

The house in the woods behind him was no longer of 
any concern. There, as he had set out to do, he had al¬ 
ready worked his fierce will. It was sufficient. That 
which was yet to be accomplished he knew to lie on the 
waterway approach, and his mind was focussed upon the 
three black, smoking hills which he had passed on his 
way from the distant lake. 

He stirred out of his deep contemplation. He raised 
his rifle and slung it upon his buckskin-clad shoulder. 
Then he turned about, and raised one lean, brown hand. 
It was an expressive gesture. There was something in 
it similar to the shoulder-shrug of callous indifference. 
He passed on down the river. 


The canoe was making its leisurely way up the river. 
The dip of the paddles was easy; it was rhythmic and full 
of the music so perfectly in tune with Nature in her 
gentler mood. The vessel was long and low, and built 
for rapid, heavy transport where the waters were not 
always at rest, and the battle with the elements was fierce 
and unrelenting. It was the hide-built craft native to 
the Eskimo, whose life is spent in the Polar hunt. 


74 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


The vessel was served by eight paddles. But there 
were two other occupants lounging amidships against the 
rolls of blankets and furs which were part of their camp 
outfit. These two were talking in low voices while the 
men at the paddles, stripped to the waist, squat, power¬ 
ful, yellow-skinned creatures whose muscles rippled in 
response to their efforts under a skin that shone like satin, 
remained concerned only for their labours. 

“There will be a big noise—later.’’ 

The snapping eyes of the younger man were half smil¬ 
ing as he contemplated the shimmering waters of the river 
ahead. The man beside him stirred. His curious eyes 
lit with a gleam of irony as he withdrew his gaze from 
the distant smoke cloud which lolled ponderously on the 
still air. 

“Oh, yes. There will be a big noise,” he said. “But 
it doesn’t matter. Maybe p’lice will come.” He laughed 
coldly. “An’ when they come—what? Later they go 
away. Later it is forgotten. Winter comes and every¬ 
thing is forgotten. It is the way of this far-north coun¬ 
try. Only is this country for the man who lives in it. 
Not for those who mark it on a map, and say—‘it is 
mine.’ No. It is for us, Sate. It is ours. We make 
the law which says the thing we desire must be ours. Le 
Gros was a big fool. But it would have been useless to 
have his secret and leave him living. One word, and 
they would have flooded the country with white trash 
from every corner of the earth. It will not be that way 
now. We wait for the p’lice to come. We wait for them 
to go. Then this thing is ours, the same as all the rest.” 

Sate turned his dark eyes upon the strong profile of his 
father. 

“Yes,” he agreed, while his eyes questioned. 

There was usually a question in his eyes when regard- 



THE VALLEY OF THE FIRE HILLS 75 

ing his parent; a question in his hot impulsive mind when 
he listened to the cold tone of authority that was always 
addressed to him. The filial attitude of the youth was 
no more than skin deep. 

“You have the plans safe?” he inquired presently, 
while he watched the brown fingers of the other filling 
the familiar red-clay pipe. “You have not passed them 
for me to read?” 

The tone was a complaint, and it brought the curious 
regard of the tawny eyes to the discontented face. For 
a moment Sate confronted them boldly. Then he yielded, 
and his gaze was turned upon the scenes of the river. 

“You will see them when—it is necessary.” 

A dark fire was burning behind the boy’s pre-occupied 
gaze. Nor was it likely that the father failed to under¬ 
stand the mood his denial had aroused. He watched the 
lowering of the black brows, the savage setting of the 
youthful jaws, and a shadowy smile that had nothing 
pleasant in it made its way to his cold eyes. 

For all his surge of feeling Sate continued to regard the 
surrounding mountains through which they were passing. 
There was not a detail of the course of this little, hidden 
river that held even a passing interest for the youth. His 
whole life had been lived within the Valley of the Fire 
Hills and its beauty, the mystery of it affected him no 
more congenially than might a prisoner be affected by 
the bare walls and iron bars of his cell. His heart and 
mind were in fierce rebellion. He was chafing impotently. 
But he was held silent, for he dared not pit himself 
against the iron will, the inhuman cruelty which he knew 
to lie behind the cold eyes which, in his brief twenty 
years of life, he had only learned to obey through fear. 

The man beside him had lit his pipe without a shadow 
of concern, and now he sat smoking it like any native, 


7 6 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


with its stem supported by his strong jaws thrust in 
the centre of his hard mouth. He held the little bowl in 
both hands. 

The vessel passed out of the shadow of the canyon, 
and the welcome shade gave place to the blazing heat of 
full sunlight. The sky was without a cloud except for 
the overhanging smoke patch. The great hills had sud¬ 
denly leapt back and the world had become radiant with 
a hundred verdant hues, and the soft purple of the dis¬ 
tance. 

It was the arena of the Fire Hills. They stood up in 
the heart of it, three of them. Three comparatively low, 
expansive hummocks dwarfed by the tremendous alti¬ 
tude of the surrounding mountain ring. Standing widely 
separated on the low flat, about which the shrunken sum¬ 
mer river skirted, they stood ominous, black and smoking. 
They were bare to the basaltic rock which was their 
whole structure, burnt black by the centuries of fire con¬ 
tained within their troubled hearts. They were stark, 
hideous, like malevolent dwarfs, monstrous and threaten¬ 
ing, frowning down upon a world made gracious the year 
round by reason of their own involuntary beneficence. 

The man removed his pipe from between his lips and 
inclined his head in the direction of the smoking hills. 

“An hour more,” he said. 

Sate’s reply came without glancing round. 

“Yes,” he said. 

His eyes, too, were on the three hills. It would have 
been impossible for it to have been otherwise. Their 
great ugly shoulders rose high above the belt of forest 
trees which lined the left bank of the river, and the smoke 
cloud hung heavily over the summits, till their appearance 
was like that of giant mushrooms. The smoke was mo¬ 
tionless, dense, threatening. 




THE VALLEY OF THE FIRE HILLS 77 

“It’s thick,” the father observed reflectively. “We 
need a wind to carry it away. If the weather changes it’ll 
come down in a fog. They’re queer—those hills. Some¬ 
day they’ll—” 

The sharp crack of a rifle rang out. The man in the 
prow of the vessel jerked forward in the act of dipping 
his paddle, and sprawled with his body lolling over the 
vessel’s side. 

The man with the yellow eyes scrambled to his feet and 
Sate sat up. For one tense moment every eye was turned 
upon the belt of trees that lined the shore masking the 
base of the Fire Hills. The shot had come from that 
direction, but there was nothing, no sign of any sort to 
give a clue to the whereabouts of the man who had fired 
with such murderous accuracy. 

The man standing amidships gave a sharp order. His 
crew had quit paddling in the complete confusion into 
which the attack had flung them. And, in a moment, the 
paddles dipped again, but only seven of them. 

Sate passed forward to the wounded man, and his 
father waited, still standing, for the result of his investi¬ 
gations. It was some time before the youth gave a sign. 
But at last he dragged the fallen body into the boat and 
laid it out in the bottom of it. 

“Well?” 

The demand came sharply. But the tawny eyes were 
still steadily searching the wood-clad bank of the river. 

“Dead.” 

Sate’s reply was no less sharp. 

“Drop him overboard. We’ve no room for dead men. 
Take the paddle yourself, Sate.” After delivering his 
order the man amidships turned about and spoke in a 
foreign tongue to the man in the stern. Instantly the 
prow of the vessel swung towards the shore. 


78 


THE LUCK OP THE KID 


Again a shot rang out. This time it was the man 
whose paddle had changed the vessel’s course who was 
the victim. He lolled forward like a tired man at the 
finish of the stroke of his paddle. Then he crumpled, col¬ 
lapsing against the man in front of him, shot throught the 
heart. 


The dusky figure was moving rapidly down the 
shadowed aisles of leafless tree-trunks. Its movements 
were almost without sound. They were the stealthy, 
swift movements of the Indian in pursuit of a wary 
quarry. 

Every now and again Usak paused in the shelter of a 
great forest bole, and his fierce eyes searched for opening 
in the barrier of undergrowth that hid the waters of the 
river beyond. His patience seemed inexhaustible. Effort 
was unrelaxing. He was spurred by a lust that was all- 
consuming. 

So he kept pace with the moving vessel that was be¬ 
hind him on the river. His object was to keep ever ahead 
of it, not remaining a second longer at any given point 
than his purpose demanded. On, and on, with the swift, 
silent gait of the hunter, he passed from tree to tree but 
never did he permit himself to pass out of gunshot of his 
quarry. 

He paused at a fallen tree. To the right of him, look¬ 
ing down the river, was a narrow break in the tangle of 
undergrowth. He rested his queer, long rifle and 
searched over the sights, holding a definite spot on the 
shining waters covered. The man was deadly in his de¬ 
liberation. Twice he re-adjusted his sights. Then at 
last, apparently satisfied, stretched prone on the ground 
under cover of the protecting tree trunk, he waited with 


THE VALLEY OF THE FIRE HILLS 79 


the weapon pressed hard into his shoulder, his lean tena¬ 
cious finger on the trigger, and an eye, that displayed no 
shadow of mercy, glancing over his sights. 

The moments passed in deathly silence. The trees 
above him creaked in the super-heated twilight. But none 
of the forest sounds distracted him. His keen ears were 
listening for one familiar sound. His searching eyes 
were waiting for one vision in the narrow opening of the 
undergrowth. 

The sound came. And into the open flashed the prow 
of the approaching canoe. It was more than two hundred 
yards from the man’s place of concealment, but the dis¬ 
tance had been calculated to a fraction with the skill of a 
great hunter. The finger pressed the trigger. 

The hidden man leaped to his feet, a grim look of satis¬ 
faction shining in his eyes. He had witnessed the thing 
he desired. He had seen the man at the vessel’s prow 
fall forward. And he knew it was the man who had 
taken the place of an earlier victim. 

He was off on the run as an answering shot rang out, 
and he heard the spat of a bullet strike one of the tree 
trunks somewhere behind him. There was another shot, 
and another. But each shot found its home in the up¬ 
standing tree-trunks far in the rear of him, and left him 
grimly unconcerned. It was a battle to the death in a 
fashion of which he was absolutely master. It mattered 
not to him if the canoe continued on its course, or re¬ 
treated, or if the enemy abandoned the river and sought 
to continue the fight in the twilight of the forests. He 
knew he held him at his mercy on this great bend of the 
river. For the far bank was walled by the granite of the 
great hills which closed in the arena of the Fire Hills. 
There was no escape. 

After awhile he paused again at the foot of a tree that 


8 o 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


had been rudely storm-blasted. Its crown was shorn and 
lay a vast tangle on the ground beside it. In a moment, 
with rifle slung, he had swarmed the broken trunk and 
lodged himself in the lower branches which still remained. 
He gazed out over the top of the undergrowth, and a 
great length of the sweep of the river was spread out 
before his hungry eyes. The canoe was just entering 
his field of vision. He settled himself with his back to 
the tree-trunk, and his knees were bent in a squatting 
posture with his feet supported on a projecting limb which 
also helped to screen him from those on the river. He ad¬ 
justed his sights and prepared to hurl death from his 
hiding-place. 

Slowly he pressed the trigger and his ancient weapon 
faithfully responded. The ivory sights were unfailing to 
an eye behind which burned so fierce a desire. He saw 
the result even with the rifle still pressed to his shoulder, 
and unconsciously he pronounced the triumphant thought 
in his mind. 

“Four!” 

He re-loaded. The canoe was in full view now, and 
the temptation was irresistible. Again he pressed the 
trigger, and another life had passed. 

He lowered his weapon and watched. The short man 
amidships was about to answer. He saw a rifle raised. 
The shot echoed against the granite walls behind it. And 
something like a smile lit the hunter’s eyes, for the man 
had fired into the forest far below where he was securely 
seated. Instantly he re-loaded, and, a moment later, a 
sixth victim fell to his lethal weapon. 

He dropped from his “crow’s nest” and ran on 
through the dark aisles that hid him so well. Every foot 
of the way was mapped in his mind. He had laid his trail 
with the skill of a man who, knowing his craft, will not 


THE VALLEY OF THE FIRE HILLS 81 


yield one fraction of his advantage. So he passed on 
to where the forest narrowed down by reason of the Fire 
Hill, whose ponderous slopes came down almost to the 
river bank. 

He passed from the forest and began the ascent of the 
hill. Here there was no cover but the rough, protruding 
boulders on the blackened slopes. But he had reached a 
point of calculated recklessness when he knew he must 
court greater chances for the success he desired. There 
had been ten men in the canoe when first he had welcomed 
the sight of it upon the river. Ten men, all of whom 
had participated in the wanton destruction of everything 
in the world that had meant life, and hope, and home to 
him. Now there were only four. 

The canoe was within a mile of its destination, and he 
had decided before that destination was reached only one 
single man of its complement must remain alive. His 
purpose was implacable. Vengeance consumed the man. 
And it was the vengeance that only the savage heart of 
a creature of his ancestry could have contemplated. 

He passed on up the slope with the speed of some swift¬ 
footed forest creature. And the smoke haze rising from 
the summit partially obscured the drab of his clothing 
against the blackened ground. Up towards the belching 
crown he moved, but ever with a glance flung backward 
lest the increasing density of the smoke cloud should mar 
his view of the things below. 

At last he came to a halt. The point had been reached 
when he dared proceed no farther. The haze, in the bril¬ 
liant air, was sufficient to screen him without obscuring 
his vision of the river. So he took up a position behind 
a boulder, and leant upon it with his rifle supported for 
steadiness on its clean-cut surface. For some moments 
he watched the fierce efforts of the remainder of the crew 


6 


82 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


of the canoe to make the shelter of the house something 
less than a mile away to his left. 

Yes, there were four of them only. And all four were 
paddling literally for their lives. He watched them 
closely, a devilish smile lighting his satisfied eyes. And 
he saw that the rhythm of their stroke had been lost, and 
the speed of the vessel was infinitely slow. Oh, yes, he 
understood. Panic had done its work. The panic inspired 
by complete impotence. They were there a target for just 
so long as they were in the open of the river. There was 
no shelter for them anywhere. The granite of the far 
wall of the river cut off escape, and the forest on the 
hither side contained the deadly, unseen danger. So 
there was nothing left them but to race on, zigzagging 
a course down the river in the hope of escape from the 
deadly fire. 

He re-adjusted the sights of his rifle and judged his 
distance. Slowly and very deliberately he pressed the 
trigger. The shot passed over the canoe. He re-loaded 
without concern, and his second shot left only three 
paddles dipping. The man in the bow of the boat 
squatted drooping and clutching for support. 

He waited for the final result of his shot, and it came 
as the man yielded his hold and dropped helplessly into 
the bottom of the boat. Again he laid his weapon. Two 
more shots rang out from the smoke shroud of the burn¬ 
ing hill. Then, after a brief interval, two more carried 
their deadly burden. The man re-loaded again and 
again till a pile of empty shells lay close beside him. 
Then, at last, he rose from his crouching position and 
stretched his cramping limbs. He slung his hot rifle upon 
his shoulder, and stood gazing down upon the slowly 
moving boat as it laboured over the water. He was 
completely satisfied. Now there was left but one man 


THE VALLEY OF THE FIRE HILLS 83 


to drive the heavy vessel to the haven which should mean 
shelter from his murderous sniping. 


The man with the yellow eyes drove hard with his 
paddle and the nose of the vessel thrust deep into the mud 
of the landing. For a moment he remained kneeling, 
supported against the strut where he had laboured. He 
made no attempt to leave his post. Only he gazed along 
down the river bank at the screen of bush which lined it. 
There was no emotion visible in his mask-like face. 
There was nothing in his eyes to tell of the swift, urgent 
thought behind them. 

After awhile his gaze was withdrawn to the grim 
freight of his vessel. Then he stood up quickly and 
moved forward. Four bodies were lying huddled in the 
bottom of the canoe. With three of them he was com¬ 
pletely unconcerned. But with the fourth it was different. 
He stood for a moment gazing down unemotionally 
at the dead body of the youthful Sate. Then he 
stooped, and, gathering it in his powerful arms, carried 
it quickly ashore. He laid it gently down on a vivid bed 
of Arctic wild flowers and stood over it in silent con¬ 
templation. 

His pre-occupation was intense. But he gave no sign. 
Such emotions as were his were his alone. They were 
stirring in a heart deep hidden. And his tawny eyes 
masked no less surely now than was always their habit. 

A sound disturbed him at last, and he turned like a 
panther ready for anything it might portend. But the 
flash of alertness died out of his eyes at the sight of a 
woman’s small figure as it broke its way through the bush 
in the direction of the house which was his home. 

The pretty face the man was looking into was drawn 


8 4 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


and haggard. The slanting eyes were full of a terror that 
even the long awaited return of her man could not banish. 
The woman had run to him with little, hurried strides and 
hands outstretched in piteous appeal. 

“Hela!” she cried. And into the pronunciation of the 
man’s name, and in the pitch of her voice she contrived to 
fling a world of woman’s terrified despair. 

For once the man’s eyes revealed something of that 
which was passing behind them. 

“Tell me, Crysa,” he demanded urgently. “Tell me 
quick.” 

The distraught woman stood clinging to the arm which 
made no effort to yield her support. She broke at once 
into hysterical speech in a foreign tongue. 

“They have killed them all. Even the dogs. There is 
not one left. All—all are killed. Myso, Oto, Lalman. 
Oh, they murder them with the knife. I hid in the secret 
place. It was Oto who gave me warning with his dying 
words. He was dead—all dead in a moment. I can see 
the blood on the floor now. Devils came to the house. An 
army of them. They—Oh!” she cried breaking off the 
torrent of her disjointed story in a spasm of new horror. 

Her gaze had fallen on the still, prone figure at her 
man’s feet. Her hands dropped from his arm. She 
moved a step from him, and bending forward, peered 
down. 

“Dead, too,” she said, in a low hushed voice. “Dead!” 

Then she recognized the dark features of the boy who 
was her son. Suddenly a piercing cry broke the silence 
of the woods about them, and echoed against the far walls 
that shut in the river. 

“Sate!” she cried. “Our Sate!” And in a moment 
she had flung her frail body upon the still figure stretched 
upon its bed of wild flowers. 



THE VALLEY OF THE FIRE HILLS 85 

The man looked on. He watched the delicate hands as 
they beat the ground in his wife’s paroxysm of grief. 
He listened to her demented shrieks of lamentation. But 
he gave no sign; he offered no comfort. Maybe he found 
himself simply helpless. Maybe in his hard, unyielding 
mood he felt it best that the woman’s storm of grief 
should spend itself. Perhaps, even, the disaster of his 
journey home had left him indifferent to everything else. 
Certainly his cruel eyes were without any softening, with¬ 
out any expression but that which was usual to them. 

The woman’s lamentations died down to heart-racked 
sobs, and the man turned away. He passed slowly down 
to the boat, so deeply nosed into the mud, and the lessen¬ 
ing cries of the distracted mother pursued him. But he 
no longer gave heed to them. 

He laid hold of the canoe and set to hauling it clear 
of the water. Once, twice, thrice he heaved with all the 
strength of his powerful body. The boat was half way 
up the bank. Then, as he lay to the work again, a cry that 
was something like a snarl broke from him. Some great 
body had leapt on him from behind. His hold was torn 
loose from his task, and he was flung bodily, with terrific 
force, sprawling amidst the radiant flowers that littered 
the river bank. The dark, avenging figure of the Indian, 
Usak, stood over him. 

For one brief instant eye searched eye. No word 
passed the lips of either. It was a moment of furious 
challenge, a moment of murderous purpose. It passed. 
And its passing came with the lunging of the Indian as 
he precipitated himself upon his victim. 

They lay writhing, and twisting, and struggling on the 
ground. No vocal sound, no sound but the sound of 
furious movement came in the struggle. The Indian was 
uppermost, as he had intended to be from the moment 


86 THE LUCK OF THE KID 

and the method of his attack. He had one object, and one 
object only. 

The Indian’s great size and strength were overwhelm¬ 
ing with the other caught at a disadvantage. Then the 
man with the yellow eyes was fully two decades older. 
Usak was lithe, active as a wild cat, with all the bulk of 
a greater forest beast. Then there was his simple, terrible 
purpose. 

It was done, finished in a few awful moments. A 
sound broke from the man underneath the Indian’s body. 
It was a half-stifled choking cry. It was inarticulate ex¬ 
cept that it was a cry of pain and suffering for which there 
could be no other expression. And instantly all strug¬ 
gling ceased. 

The arms of the man underneath fell away. Usak 
leapt to his feet and his savage eyes glowered down on 
the writhing body on the ground. For a moment he 
watched the tortured creature, effortless except for the 
physical contortions of unspeakable suffering. And pres¬ 
ently he heard the thing he had awaited. It was a faint, 
low moaning forced at last from between the blinded 
man’s stubbornly pressed lips. 

Fierce, harsh words leapt in answer to the sound, and 
the Indian spoke out of the original savagery that was 
his. 

“So! Euralian Chief!” he cried exultantly. “You not 
know all this you mak, or you not mak it so. No. I tell 
you this—I, Usak. You come kill my woman, Pri-loo. 
You kill my good boss, Marty Le Gros. You come to 
steal. But you not steal. Only you kill my woman, Pri- 
loo, an’ my good boss. So I, Usak, come. I kill up all the 
mans, everything. But not so I kill your woman. Not so 
I kill you. Oh, no. That for bimeby. Now I tak out 
your eyes. If I kill up your woman you die. No good. 


THE VALLEY OF THE FIRE HILLS 87 


No. So I leave you your woman. She lie there by your 
son. She look this way now to see the thing I do. Bimeby 
she come. She forget the son I shoot all up. She re¬ 
member only her man who will live in darkness. It good. 
It just how I think. Bimeby she come. She mak you live. 
She, your woman. She lead you by the hand. She feed 
you. She mak you see through her eyes. So you know the 
hell you show to me. Oh, yes. It black hell for you. No 
light no more. Your folk come. They find you. You 
not see them. Nothing. Then they go leave you. An’ 
so you live—in hell. Bimeby I come. Big long time I 
come. An’ when I come I kill you. I kill you an’ your 
woman all up dead, same as you kill my woman, Pri-loo. 
Now I go. I go an’ think, think, how I mak kill you— 
sometime.” 




PART II 

FIFTEEN YEARS LATER 


89 














CHAPTER I 


PLACER CITY 

Bill Wilder smiled in an abstracted, wry sort of fashion 
as he strode down the boarded sidewalk, which was no 
more than sufficient for its original purpose of saving 
pedestrians from wallowing in the mire and stagnant 
water of the unmade main throughfare of Placer City. 

He was on his way to his office from his house. His 
house was built well beyond the tattered city’s limits with 
a view to escape from the sordid atmosphere of the north¬ 
ern gold city, which in the long years of acquaintance he 
had learned to detest. 

Bill Wilder was the wealthiest gold man in a city of 
extreme wealth. Ten years of abounding success had 
transformed a youth of barely eighteen, lean, large, 
angular, yearning with every wholesome human desire, 
into a man of twenty-eight, glutted and overburdened with 
a fortune and mining interests the extent of which even 
he found it well nigh impossible to estimate. In ten years, 
under the driving force of inflexible resolve, backed by 
amazing good fortune, he had achieved at an age when 
the generality of men are only approaching the threshold 
of affairs that really matter. 

But somehow his success had brought him little enough 
joy. It had brought him labour that was incessant. It had 
made it possible that every whim of his could be satis¬ 
fied by the stroke of the pen. But instead of satisfaction, 
he reminded himself that somehow his life had become 
completely and utterly empty, and he yearned to set the 


91 


92 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


clock back to those long, arduous, struggling days, when 
hope and resolve had been able to drive him to greater 
and greater exertions, with a pocket-book that was almost 
as lean and hungry as his stomach. 

His smile now was inspired by the memory of a brief 
interview he had just had on his way down, in the hall of 
the McKinley Hotel, with a Hebrew acquaintance, a 
wealthy and influential saloon-proprietor. A. Feldman 
had spent half-an-hour in endeavouring to get him to join 
forces in the erection of a new dance hall that was in¬ 
tended to eclipse anything of the kind in the country in 
size, splendour, and profits. His reply had been curt. It 
had been harsh in its bitter condemnation. And the 
memory of the Jew’s hopeless stare of amazement was 
with him now. 

“Not on your life, Feldman,” he had said in conclusion. 
“I’m a gold man. No better and no worse. I’m not a 
brothel keeper.” 

His smile passed, and he gazed about him at the moving 
traffic surging along the miserable highway under the 
dazzling sunlight of a perfect spring day. He had no 
particular claim to good looks. His face was strong, and 
his expression open. There was a certain angularity about 
his clean-shaven features, and a simple directness in his 
clear-gazing grey eyes. He looked a typical gold man 
without pretence or display, and from the careless rough¬ 
ness of his tweed clothing no one would have taken him 
for a man who counted his wealth in millions of dollars. 

But that was the man. Achievement was the sole pur¬ 
pose of his life. And it must be the achievement of a 
great body and muscles rather than the subtle scheming of 
the acute commercial mind which he by no means lacked. 

The life of this mushroom northern city only stirred 
him to repugnance. He was no prude. He had tasted of 


PLACER CITY 


93 


the life in the fevered moments of youth. But he knew, 
he had strong reason to know, there was nothing in it that 
money could not buy, from the governing corporation to 
the women and gunmen who haunted the dance halls, 
except the Mounted Police detachment. And somehow the 
knowledge had become completely hateful to him. 

He had migrated to the place during one of its early 
“rushes/’ when it was only a few degrees removed from a 
mining camp. A whirlwind rush of humanity had swept 
down upon it bearing him on its tide. And he had re¬ 
mained to witness its leaping development into an estab¬ 
lished city of wealth and wanton freedom. Later he had 
participated in an attempt at real government by the saner 
element of its people, and the making safe of life and 
property. With them he had hoped. He had looked on 
at the mushroom growth of great hotels and offices, and 
greater and more elaborate halls of public entertainment. 
Then, with those others, he had watched the wreckage of 
the new authority under pressure of vested interests, and 
witnessed the passing of the moment or moral uplift. The 
falling back into a mire of corruption had been literally 
headlong. 

The city had grown up in the wide valley of the Hekor 
River at the point where the first alluvial strike had been 
made. It was at a point where the river widened out be¬ 
fore dispersing its northern waters into a great lake sur¬ 
rounded by the lofty range of hills which had created it. 
It followed the usual lines of all these improvised northern 
places of habitation. It was designed in a rectangular 
fashion based on one interminable main thoroughfare, 
which was the centre of haphazard development. The 
road had sidewalks, but for the rest it remained uncon¬ 
structed. Vehicular traffic wallowed in mire during the 
spring, jolted and bumped over a broken, dusty surface 


94 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


in summer, and, in winter, enjoyed a foundation of snow 
on which to travel that frequently stood five and six feet 
in depth. 

The whole place was hopelessly straggling and unkempt. 
Lofty seven- and eight-storied buildings looked down on 
the log shanties and frame hutments grovelling at their 
feet in that incongruous fashion which never seems to 
disturb the human sense of fitness. There were even men 
amongst its cosmopolitan people who found joy in the 
disparity. But these were mainly the folk who owned 
or had designed the greater structures. 

Throughout the long winter night the place was ablaze 
with electric light, a never-ending source of joy to the 
crude pioneering mind. Arc lamps lit the main thorough¬ 
fare, while a multitude of winking signs served to guide 
the unwary to those accommodating dens waiting to un¬ 
loose inflated bank rolls. During the six months of sum¬ 
mer daylight this service was unnecessary. And only the 
cold light standards, and the hideous framing of the signs, 
and the tawdry decorations of the places of entertainment 
were left to replace the winter splendour. 

Bill Wilder knew it all by heart, from the elaborate 
Ely see, down to the meanest cabaret from which a 
drunken miner would be fortunate to escape with nothing 
worse than a vanished store of “dust.” He hated it. The 
knowledge of the life that went on every hour of the 
twenty-four sickened and bored him. He longed for the 
free, wholesome, hard-living life of the outworld beyond 
the sordid prison bars which his fortune had set up about 
him. 

It was always the same now. Month in, month out, 
there was nothing but the solitude of his home and the 
work of the office in the great commercial block he had 
built, or the pastimes of the dance hall and gambling hell. 


PLACER CITY 


95 


He wanted none of it. His great body was rusting with 
disuse, while the mental effort of the administration of 
his affairs was fast robbing his sober senses of all joy 
of life. He yearned for the open with all its privations. 
He wanted the canoe nosing into the secret places of the 
far world. The burden of the battle against Nature in 
her fiercest mood was something to be desired. And so, 
too, with the howl of the deadly blizzard beyond the flap 
door of a flimsy tent. At this moment Placer City and all 
its alleged attractions were anathema to the man on the 
sidewalk. 

He came to an abrupt halt. His grey eyes were turned 
on the elaborate entrance doors of the Elysee on the 
opposite side of the road. It was disgorging its freight 
into the smiling spring sunlight, a throng of men and 
painted women who had spent the daylit night drinking, 
and dancing, and gambling. He watched them out of 
sheer disgust. Here at something like ten in the morning, 
when the sidewalks were thronged with business traffic, 
they were just about to seek their homes for that brief 
sufficiency of rest which would enable them to return to 
another night of loose pleasure. For all he was on the 
youthful side of thirty, for all he was inured to the life 
of the city, for all his blood was no less warm, and rich, 
and swift flowing, the sight mingled pity with disgust and 
left him depressed and even saddened. The terrible false¬ 
ness of it; the price that must be ultimately paid. The 
bill of interest that would be presented by an outraged 
Nature later on would mean overwhelming bankruptcy for 
the majority. He turned away and collided with an 
officer of the police. 

Superintendent Raymes stepped clear and laughed. 

“Bill Wilder gawking at the Elysee’s throw-outs? 
Guess you aren’t yearning to join that bunch?” 


96 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


“No.” 

Bill replied without any responsive laugh. 

Superintendent Raymes was his oldest friend in Placer 
City. A brisk, dapper man of medium height he was al¬ 
most dwarfed by Wilder’s great size. He was approach¬ 
ing middle life, and already a slight greying tinged the 
dark hair below his smart forage cap. He was wearing 
a black-braided patrol jacket, and the yellow-striped 
breeches and top-boots so familiar in the regions under the 
control of the Mounted Police. 

Raymes shook his head. 

“No. That’s only for the sharks and darn fools 
that life seems to set around like the sands on the 
sea shore. Can you beat it? Look at ’em piling into 
the rigs. They’re sick and mighty weary, and they’ll 
be at it again in a few hours. It beats me the way those 
poor women keep going. As for the boys—God help 
’em when those vultures have wrung them dry. Where 
are you making?” 

“Just the office.” 

Again Raymes laughed. 

“Sounds like the cemetery.” 

A smile returned to the eyes of the gold man. 

“That’s how it seems to me,” he said, as they walked 
on together. “The cemetery of all that’s worth while. 
It’s tough, Raymes. I’m sick to death counting dollars 
and looking at that sort of stuff.” He jerked his head in 
the direction of the Ely see. “I tell you I’m going to make 
a break. I’ve just got to. It’s that or go crazy. I guess 
I love this Northland to death for all the flies, and skitters, 
and the other things, but I can’t face its cities any longer 
without qualifying for the bughouse.” 

The policeman remained silent in face of the man’s 
desperate, half-laughing earnestness. He knew Wilder’s 


PLACER CITY 


97 


moods. He understood that tremendous fighting spirit 
which was consuming all his peace of mind. They passed 
on down the sidewalk. 

It was not a little curious how these two men had come 
together in intimate friendship. It had begun when 
Raymes was only an Inspector and Wilder was only be¬ 
ginning to realise the burden of a wealth that grew like a 
snowball. They had found themselves in deadly opposi¬ 
tion as a result of a desperate outbreak of lawlessness on 
a big new “strike” for which the gold man had been re¬ 
sponsible. The position had been gravely threatening. 
There had been murder, and claim jumping, and the whole 
camp was on edge and threatening something like civil 
warfare. In the absence of police there was no authority 
to control the camp. Realising the seriousness of the 
position Wilder had jumped in. Organizing his men, and 
collecting others who could be relied on, he armed them 
for the task, and forthwith launched his forces against 
the marauding gunmen who had established a reign of 
terror. There was no mercy and only summary justice. 
Every offender was dealt with on the spot, and, in the 
end, the camp was swept clean. 

When it was all over the gold man found the conse¬ 
quences of his action were far more serious than his logic 
had suggested. He had to face the tribunal of Placer 
City and render a complete accounting, with Inspector 
Raymes, keenly jealous of the law of which he was 
guardian, in deadly opposition. It had been a bitter fight. 
But Wilder’s downright honesty, his frank sincerity had 
finally broken down the police officer’s case and left him 
victor in a battle that had been fought out mainly on 
technicalities. And in the end, in place of the bitter 
antagonism which might well have arisen between them, 
a bond of great friendship was founded, based on a deep. 


7 


98 THE LUCK OF THE KID 

mutual admiration for the purpose by which both were 
inspired. 

All this had taken place about five years earlier. And 
since that time their regard for each other had ripened to 
an intimacy that had never known set-back. 

Raymes was deeply concerned for his friend’s outburst. 

“Yes, Bill,” he said presently. “It’s tough on a boy 
like you. You collected your dust too quick. You haven’t 
the temper of a millionaire. You aren’t the man to sit 
around spinning every darn dollar into two, and grousing 
because you can’t make three of it.” He laughed. “You’re 
the kind of hoss built for the race track of life. You 
weren’t made to stand around in the barn waiting to haul 
a swell buggy by way of exercise. That break away 
is the thing for you, only I’ll hate to lose you out of this 
darn sink.” 

Bill nodded and smiled, and the whole of his boyish face 
lighted up. 

“That’s the best I’ve listened to in months,” he said. 
“I guessed you’d say I was all sorts of a darn fool not 
fancying stopping round and counting my dollars. But 
this ‘sink’ as you rightly call it. I’m a bit of a kid to you. 
Maybe I’m a long-headed kid in a way. But a sink don’t 
count much on that. If you live in a sink at my age 
there’s a mighty big chance you’ll sooner or later join up 
with the sort of muck you mostly find in a sink. And the 
thought scares me.” 

The policeman glanced round with twinkling eyes. 

“You can always sit around on top. You can breathe 
good air that way and enjoy the sunlight.” 

The other shrugged. 

“An’ risk falling in when it gets you—well asleep. No, 
George. You were right first time. I’ll make the break 
an’ get out of the way of any chance of—mishap.” 


PLACER CITY 


99 

They had reached the square frame building of the 
police post and paused at the door. 

“There mustn’t be any mishap,” Raymes said smiling 
up into the earnest face of the man for whom he felt some 
sort of responsibility. “Are you yearning for that office 
of yours? Or do you feel like wasting an hour while I 
talk.” 

Bill looked keenly down into the other’s twinkling eyes. 

“What’s the game?” he asked with a directness that 
was almost brusque. Then he laughed. “But there, I 
guess I’m mostly ready to listen when George Raymes 
fancies talking. It isn’t every oyster that’s full of pearls. 
Sure. I’ll be glad of the excuse to dodge the office.” 

The superintendent shook his head and his smile passed, 
leaving his face set and purposeful. 

“Typhoid’s a deal more prevalent in oysters than 
pearls,” he said grimly. “Come right in.” 

• • • 9 • • O 

It was a bare, comfortless office, clean scrubbed and 
dusted but quite without anything in its furnishing to 
indicate the superior rank of the man who used it. It was 
characteristic, however, of the men whose ceaseless activi¬ 
ties alone contrive that the northern outlands shall escape 
the worst riot of human temper. The boarded walls were 
hung with files. A small iron safe stood in one corner 
of the room, and a large woodstove occupied another. 
There was a roll-top desk near by the one window that lit 
the room, and a plain wooden cupboard stood against the 
wall directly behind the chair which Superintendent 
Raymes occupied. There were two or three Windsor 
chairs about the walls, and the only luxury the room af¬ 
forded was a large rocker-chair into which Bill Wilder 
had sprawled his great body. 

On the desk in front of the officer was a musty-looking 


100 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


file of papers. It was unopened at the moment for the 
man was contemplating one of several letters that lay 
beside it. He was leaning back in his revolving chair, and 
a curious, thoughtful look was in his reflective eyes. Bill 
Wilder was removing the paper band from the cigar the 
other had forced upon him. 

Raymes looked up after awhile and sat regarding the 
man with the cigar. 

“So you’re going to sell out, Bill,” he said quietly. 
“You’re going to sell out everything, all your interests, 
and—quit?” 

“And make some sort of use of a life that’s creaking 
with rust in every blamed joint.” 

Bill thrust the cigar into his mouth and prepared to light 
it. 

The other shook his head. 

“We mustn't lose you, Bill. You’re the only feller in 
this muck hole we can’t do without. I’m not thinking 
of Placer City only. I’m thinking of this great old north 
country to which—you belong.” 

The policeman watched the cloud of smoke which the 
gold man’s powerful lungs exhaled. He saw the match 
extinguish, and followed its flight as it was flung into the 
cuspidor which stood beside the stove. He was thinking 
hard and wondering. He was not quite sure how best 
to deal with the thing he had in his mind. 

Bill smiled. 

“That’s like you, George,” he said. “If I listened to 
you, and took you seriously, I’d guess I’m some feller— 
with dollars or without. But you're right when you say 
I belong to this old north country. I’d hate quitting it. 
I’d hate it bad. If I could locate a real use for myself in 
it I’d sooner serve it than any other. And the tougher the 
service the better it would make me feel. Gee! I’m soft 


PLACER CITY ioi 

and flabby like some darn fish that’s been stewing in the 
sun.” 

“I know.” The policeman forced a laugh. He had 
made up his mind. “Here, I’ve a mighty interesting 
letter come along. It’s from the Fur Valley Corporation. 
Do you know ’em? They’ve a big range of trading posts 
up an’ down the country. They’ve got one on the Hekor, 
away up north on the edge of the Arctic. It’s mainly 
been a seal trading post, and they collect sable and fox up 
that way. This letter says they’re closing it down. There’s 
a reason. And they fancied handing it on to me. Do you 
feel like taking a read of it? It’s quite short. These folk 
are business people without a big imagination so they keep 
to plain facts.” 

Bill reached out and took the proffered letter. It was 
dated Seattle, and was clearly from the head office of the 
company. He glanced at the signature to it and noted the 
paper heading. Then he read slowly and carefully, for he 
knew that George Raymes had serious reason for handing 
it to him. 

Dear Sir, 

In the ordinary course of business we should not think of 
troubling you, a distinguished officer of the incomparable 
force to which you belong, with the contents of this letter. 
Although it is merely to notify our intention of closing down 
our trading post, Fort Cupar, at Fox Bluff, on the Hekor 
River, which is within one hundred miles of the Alaskan 
boundary, there are reasons lying behind the simple fact 
such as we feel you, in your official capacity, will be interested 
to hear. 

Put as briefly as possible these are the reasons. 

Fort Cupar at Fox Bluff has been one of our fur-trading 
posts, yielding us a very fair harvest of Beaver, Fox, Sable, 
Seal. Up to some eighteen years ago we had reason to con¬ 
sider it our most profitable post. Then came a slump. This 


102 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


came suddenly. And, according to our factor's interpreta¬ 
tion, it was simply, and solely due to the appearance of a 
large band of foreign poachers, who, without scruple for 
humanity, or international honesty, terrorized the Eskimo 
into passing them their trade at starvation values, or, if they 
refused, robbed them with the utmost violence. 

These reports at the time were duly passed on to the head¬ 
quarters of the police, and were, I believe, carefully looked 
into. But for reasons of which we have no cognizance, 
possibly the far inaccessibility of the country, possibly be¬ 
cause these poachers were located on the United States side 
of the Alaskan border, possibly under pressure of work in 
the various gold regions, which is the primary duty of your 
officers, these poachers were permitted to continue their 
depredations, which, as far as we can ascertain, involved 
amongst other crimes that of almost wholesale murder. 

Our concern now is to tell you that for the last fifteen to 
eighteen years we have struggled to carry on our post in this 
region in the hope that things would ultimately straighten 
themselves out, and our trade return to its normal prosperity. 
But this has not been the case. Apparently, from our factor’s 
reports, the methods of these poachers, who seem to be a 
race of Alaskan Eskimo, who are known as the Euralians, 
have changed only in process but not in effect. Now they 
seem to be divided up into lone bands of marauders, fre¬ 
quently at war with each other. There seems to be no 
controlling chief as there was in years gone by. They operate 
within the Arctic Circle, and only amongst the Eskimo of 
that region. And the one time descents upon the more south¬ 
ern communities of whites and natives no longer take place. 
Meanwhile, however, all trade in the furs we desire is at an 
end. Therefore we are reluctantly forced to close down, and 
thus another serious blow to the Canadian fur trade is 
involved. 


I am, Sir, 

Yours truly, 

For The Fur Valley Corporation, 

James Steely, 
General Manager, 


PLACER CITY 


103 

Bill looked up from his reading and encountered the 
searching gaze of his friend. 

“There’s a nasty bite in that ‘brief/ ” the policeman 
smiled. 

The gold man nodded seriously. 

“Not more than I’d have put in it if I’d been general 
manager of that corporation.” 

“No. And you’d have been right. That letter’s mighty 
reasonable, and I’m with the feller who wrote it.” 

Superintendent Raymes turned to his desk and opened 
the rusty-looking file that was lying in front of him. 

“You know, Bill, that letter got me right away. But I 
was a bit helpless. Here, now, you sit right there and 
smoke that cheap cigar I pushed at you while I do a talk. 
I’ve got a yarn to hand you that’ll maybe set you thinking 
hard.” 

He sat back tilting his chair, and the rusty file lay open 
on his lap. The papers it held had lost their pristine 
whiteness. There were distinct signs of age in their hues. 

“You know I’ve only had charge of Placer City for 
something like seven years, and things have been so darned 
busy since I first got around I haven’t had a great chance 
of looking into the remoter things my predecessor left 
behind him. Eighteen years of police life is liable to 
accumulate a bunch of stories it would take a lifetime 
reading. 

“However,” he went, glancing down at the file, “when 
I received that letter I got tremendously busy hunting up 
old records, and, after nearly a day’s work I came to the 
conclusion that I’d opened up one of the worst stories, and 
one of the most important, that I’d found in years. I 
found story after story of these Euralians. They mostly 
came from Fort Cupar at Fox Bluff, but they also came 
from simple, uneducated trappers, and from whitemen 


104 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


who adventured northward of here after gold. They came 
from all sorts of folk, and one and all corroborated all that 
that letter contains besides presenting many lurid pictures 
of the doings of these toughs which that letter only hints 
at.” 

He removed several sheets of discoloured foolscap from 
the file. They were pinned together. 

‘Tve selected this report which is dated fifteen years 
ago. It comes from a man named Jim McLeod, and he 
was factor for the Fur Valley Corporation at Fort Cupar 
at that time. It’s one of several reports he sent down 
from time to time pointing the conditions of his district, 
and giving pretty red-hot accounts of the terror which 
these Euralians had created there. But I’m not going to 
worry you with all that stuff. I’ll simply tell you that the 
terror of these folk was very real. That these marauders 
were undoubtedly at that time a large well-organised outfit 
who had completely succeeded in cleaning up the furs of 
that region and were passing them over the Alaskan 
border into foreign hands. 

'This is a long report and I’m not going to read it to 
you. I’m just going to hand it you in my own words. It’s 
a bad story, but it’s full of an interest that’ll appeal to 
you. Fifteen years ago there was a swell sort of mis¬ 
sionary feller up at Fox Bluff, a great friend of the man 
who wrote this report. His name was Marty Le Gros. 
He wasn’t a real churchman, but just a good sort of boy 
who was yearning to hand help to the Eskimo and 
Indians. I gather, at the time this story occurred, he was 
a widower with a baby girl of about four years. He also 
had an Indian called Usak, and his squaw, working for 
him about his house. The squaw was kind of foster- 
mother to the kid. Well, this report tells how in chasing 
over the country visiting his Missions this Le Gros hap- 


PLACER CITY 


105 


pened on a most amazing gold ‘strike.’ It doesn’t say how 
or just where. But it says that the missionary showed 
this factor man two chunks of pure gold, and a bunch of 
dust that well nigh paralysed him. Le Gros being a simple 
sort of feller didn’t worry to keep his news to himself, 
but blurted his story broadcast, and I gather the only 
thing he didn’t tell about it was the actual whereabouts of 
the ‘strike.’ Apparently he let it be understood that Loon 
Creek was the locality without giving any exact particu¬ 
lars. This man gives such a brief sketch of this gold 
business I sort of feel he wasn’t anxious to say too much. 
The reason’s a bit obvious. And anyway I haven’t ever 
heard of a rush in that direction. So the news never got 
around down here. But it seems to have got to the ears 
of these Euralian poachers and set them crazy to jump 
in on him with both feet. 

“Now this is what happened,” Raymes went on, after 
a brief reflective pause, while Bill sat still, absorbed in the 
interest which the magic of a gold discovery had for him. 
His cigar had gone out. “Up to that time the Euralians 
and their doings were well enough known to these people, 
but only by hearsay. These ruffians had never operated 
as far south-east as Fox Bluff and Fort Cupar. Well, the 
missionary was out on the trail on a visit to some of his 
Missions with his man, Usak. He arrived at one of them 
on the Hekor. It was a settlement of fishing Indians. The 
whole camp was burned out, and the old men, and women, 
and infants had been butchered to death. Further, from 
their complete absence, it is supposed the young men and 
women had been carried off into captivity for slavery and 
harlotry. There was no doubt of its being the work of 
these Euralians. The whole thing was characteristic of 
every known story of them. Le Gros returned home in a 
panic. 


106 THE LUCK OF THE KID 

“He came to McLeod and told him the story of it, and 
together they realised that it was merely prelude to some¬ 
thing further. They got it into their heads that it was the 
Euralian method of embarking on a campaign to get the 
secret of Le Gros’ gold discovery. You see? Terror. 
They meant to terrorize Le Gros, and I gather they suc¬ 
ceeded. But he meant to fight. You see, he reckoned 
this 'strike’ was for his child. He wanted it for her. 
Well, these two made it up between them to outwit these 
folk. The missionary crossed the river to his home to 
prepare a map of his discovery which he was to place in 
McLeod’s hands for the benefit of his child and McLeod, 
in half shares, should anything happen to him, Le Gros. 
Something did happen. It happened the same night. 
Apparently before the map could be drawn. Sure enough 
the Euralians descended on the missionary’s house. They 
killed Le Gros, and they killed the squaw foster-mother. 
The Indian, Usak, was away from home and so escaped. 
The child was left alive, flung into an adjacent bluff, and 
the whole place was burned to the ground. That’s the 
story in brief. I daresay there’s a heap more to it, but 
it’s not in that report, and it’s not in subsequent reports, 
or in other records of my predecessor. 

“It would seem that this boy, McLeod, died about eight 
years after all this happened and was succeeded by another 
factor for his company. In the meantime my predecessor 
had sent a patrol up to investigate. The only result of this 
investigation was a complete corroboration of McLeod’s 
report, with practically nothing added to it beyond an 
urgent report on the necessity for definite international 
action on the subject of these Euralians who came in from 
Alaska. After that the thing seems to have passed out of 
my predecessor’s hands. It seems it was taken up by 
Ottawa with the usual result—pigeon-holed. Does it get 


PLACER CITY 


107 


you? There it is, a great gold discovery, somewhere up 
there on the Hekor, I suppose, and the mystery of this 
people filching our trade through a process of outrageous 
crime. Somewhere up there there’s a girl-child, white— 
she’d be about nineteen or twenty now—lost to the white 
world to which she belongs. But above all, from my point 
of view, there’s a problem. Who are these Euralians, and 
what becomes of the wealth of furs they steal? Remem¬ 
ber they were at one time at least an organised outfit.’’ 

The policeman replaced the file on his desk and returned 
the report to its place. And the pre-occupation he displayed 
was a plain index of the depth of interest he had in the 
problem which had presented itself to his searching mind. 

Bill Wilder struck a match and re-lit his cigar. 

“That’s a story of the country I know and love,” he 
said quietly. “It’s a story of the real Northland. Not 
the story of one of these muck-holes which are like boils 
in the face of civilization. I guess you haven’t passed 
me the whole thing you’ve got in your mind, George.” 

“No.” 

The policeman swung round in his chair and faced the 
clear gazing grey eyes of the man whose enormous wealth 
had still left him the youthful enthusiasm for the battle of 
the strong which had first driven him to the outlands of 
the North. 

“Will you pass me the—rest?” 

Bill smiled. 

“Sure I will, if you’ve nothing to ask, nothing to com¬ 
ment on that story.” 

“It’ll keep. Maybe I’ll have a whole big heap to talk 
when you’re through with your—proposition.” 

Raymes nodded. He, too, was smiling. He spread out 
his hands. 

“You want to quit. You want to sell out and pass on 


io8 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


where you can make some use of the life that’s creaking 
with rust in every joint. Well, it’s easy. Don’t quit. Don’t 
sell out. Take a trip north where there’s a big ‘strike’ 
waiting on a feller with a nose for gold. Where there’s 
a mighty big mystery to be cleaned up, and the hard justice 
of this iron country to be handed out to a crowd of devils 
who’ve battened on its wealth and are sucking the life out 
of its vitals. Is it good enough? You’ll be able to forget 
the dollars you’re forced to count daily in this city. You’ll 
lose sight of the Feldman crowd and the brothels they 
set going to hand them a stake. It’s the open, where God’s 
pure air’s blowing. Where there’s room for you to move, 
and breathe, and live, and where you can hit mighty hard 
when the mood takes you, and you can feel good all over 
that you’re doing something for the country you like 
best. This thing’s my job, but I haven’t the troops or 
time to fix it the way I should. I’m so crowded to the 
square inch I don’t know how to breathe right. I haven’t 
any sort of right offering you this thing. I know that, 
and I guess you’re wise it’s so. But it don’t matter. I 
do offer it to you, Bill, and it’s because I know you. I 
offer it you because you’re the feller to put it through, 
and because you’re a feller we can’t afford to lose out of 
our territory. Well?” 

The police officer’s manner had become seriously earnest, 
and the other remained silent for some moments buried in 
deep thought. George Raymes waited. He watched for 
the passing of the gold man’s deep consideration. He 
understood that the thing he required of him was no light 
task and looked like involving a tremendous sacrifice. 

At last Bill’s cigar stump was flung into the cuspidor, 
and the policeman realised that a decision had been 
arrived at. The gold man looked up, and a whimsical 
smile lit his clear eyes. 


PLACER CITY 


109 


“If I was crazy enough to take a holt on this thing I 
don’t just see—I’ve no authority. I’m no policeman. 
I’m just a bum civilian without police training. You boys 
are red-hot on the trail of crime. It’s your job, and I 
guess there’s no folk in the world better at it. But-” 

“You’ve forgotten,” Raymes broke in. “There’s the 
trail of a gold ‘strike’ in this. And Bill Wilder’s got the 
whole country beaten a mile on a trail of that nature. 
Make that ‘strike’ an’ I guess you’ll locate the rest in the 
process. I’m asking for that from you.” 

Wilder laughed. It was the clear, ringing laugh of the 
youth he really was. It was a laugh of appreciation at the 
simple tactics of his friend. It was a laugh of rising 
enthusiasm. 

“But the authority,” he protested. 

Raymes took him up on the instant. 

“I have power to enrol ‘specials.’ ” 

The other’s grey eyes lit. Again his laugh rang out. 

“Yes. I forgot. Of course you can enrol ‘specials.’ ” 
Suddenly he sprang from the depths of the rocker, and 
left it violently disturbed. He stood erect, bulking largely, 
and a flush of excitement dyed his weather-stained cheeks. 
“Of course you can,” he cried. “Yes. I’ll get after it. A 
gold trail! A bunch of toughs! A girl—a white girl! 
Ye Gods! I’m after it. You can swear me in on any 
old thing from a Bible to a harvester. That’s all I need. 
I’ll find my own outfit, and I’ll get busy right away and 
collect up my old partner Chilcoot Massy. I’ll get right 
off now down to my office and start fixing things, and 
I’ll be back again after supper to-night. But I warn you 
you’ll need to answer a hundred mighty tiresome ques¬ 
tions, and pass me all the literature you’ve collected on 
this subject when I come back. Say, the gold trail again! 
I’m just tickled to death.” 



CHAPTER II 


THE CHEECHAKOS 

The man was standing at the edge of the river landing 
gazing out across the broad waters as they drifted slowly 
by, a calm, gentle flood undisturbed by the rushing freshet 
of spring, which had already spent its turbulent life leav¬ 
ing the sedate Hekor embraced in the gentler arms of 
advancing summer. 

The landing was little better than a wreck. The green 
log piles were awry. There were rifts where last sum¬ 
mer’s timbers had been carried bodily away by the crash 
of ice at winter’s break up. For the annual rebuilding 
necessitated by the tremendous labour at the birth of the 
Arctic spring had been dispensed with. There was no 
longer any need for it. 

The man’s gaze was far-searching. It was seriously 
ruminating. Perhaps, even, it was regretful. For he 
knew that in a few hours all that he had looked out upon 
for the past seven years would lay behind him, possibly 
never to be looked upon again. 

The mile-wide river lay open to the caressing sunlight. 
It was unshaded anywhere. The far bank rose in a gentle 
slope, a perfect carpet of wild flowers, and beyond, as the 
valley rose upwards, the shimmer of summer heat bathed 
the purpling distance in an almost dazzling haze. Away 
to his left, beyond the waters, stood the dark spread of 
Fox Bluff, which gave the place its name, a wide stretch 
of tattered forest, isolated on an undulating plain many 


no 


THE CHEECHAKOS 


in 


miles in extent. And the ruins of the old Mission House, 
long since burned out by the Euralian marauders, still 
stood gaunt and bare, a monument to the tragedy that 
was now some fifteen years old. 

Behind him, well above the highest water level of the 
river, the staunch walls of the stockade of old Fort 
Cupar still sheltered the frame building which was about 
to be abandoned. But already the place had assumed 
something of the lifelessness which human desertion 
leaves in its wake. There were no Eskimo encampments 
gathered about its timbers. There were no columns of 
smoke arising from camp fires. The familiar yelp of trail 
dogs, and the shrill voices of native children were silent. 
There was no life anywhere but in the presence of the 
man on the landing, and in that of the girl clad in native 
buckskin standing beside him, and in the slow movements 
of five Indians and half-breeds who, under the guidance 
of the factor, were completing the stowage of cargo in 
the three canoes moored to the derelict landing. 

It was the day of the great retreat. It was the final 
yielding after years of struggle. It was the giving up of 
that last thread of hope which is the most difficult thing 
in human psychology. 

Old Ben Needham was more than reluctant. He was a 
hard-bitten fur-trader of the older school. A man of 
force and wide experience. A man bred to the work, 
acute, rough, and not too scrupulous. He had been born 
in the Arctic, schooled in the Arctic, and only when the 
needs of his trade demanded had he ever passed out of 
that magic circle. He was a man approaching sixty, full 
of an aggressive fighting spirit which usually modifies 
in men of advancing years. And he knew that he was 
about to acknowledge complete defeat after seven years 
of battling against invisible odds. He knew that the 


112 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


company had selected him out of all their army of ser¬ 
vants to attempt the rehabilitation of the fortunes of 
Fort Cupar, and he had utterly and completely failed. 
And so, as he stood on the landing superintending the last 
removal of stores, and contemplating the return with his 
story of failure to those who had sent him on his forlorn 
hope, his mood was uneasy, his temper was sour and in¬ 
clined to violence. 

The voice of the girl beside him roused him out of his 
contemplation of the familiar scene. 

“You need Mum here to put heart into you, Ben,” she 
said with a smile that masked her own feelings. “You 
know, Mum’s the wisest thing in a country where fools 
are dead certain to go under. She’d tell you there’s no¬ 
thing so bad in the world as flogging a dead mule. The 
feller who acts that way most generally gets kicked to 
death by a live one. Which, I guess, is only another way 
of saying it’s a fool’s game anyway.” 

“Does she say that, Kid?” 

The man turned from the scene that had so preoccupied 
him, and his deep-set, hard grey eyes surveyed the speaker 
from beneath his bushy, snow-white brows. For all his 
mood there was a sort of mild tolerance in his tone. 

The girl he addressed as Kid smiled blandly into his 
unresponsive face, and her wide blue eyes were full of 
girlish raillery. For all the sunburn on her rounded 
cheek, and the rough make of her almost mannish cloth¬ 
ing, or perhaps because of these things, she was amazingly 
attractive. She was young. Something less than twenty. 
But she was tall, taller than the broad figure of the man 
beside her. And there was physical strength and vigour 
in her graceful girlish body. 

She was clad in buckskin from her head to the reindeer 
moccasins on her shapely feet. Her tunic, or parka, was 


THE CHEECHAKOS 


ii3 

tricked out with beads and narrow fur trimmings in truly 
Indian fashion. And the leather girdle about her slim 
waist supported a long sheath knife, much as the native 
hunters were equipped. But she was white, with fair 
curling hair coiled in a prodigal mass under her fur cap, 
with wide, smiling eyes that rivalled the blue of the sum¬ 
mer sky, and a nose as perfectly modelled, and lips as 
warm and ripe as any daughter of the more southern 
latitudes. Her manner was easy and self-reliant. It was 
full of that cool assurance bred of the independence which 
the hard life of the Northland forces upon its children. 
Nature had equipped her with splendid generosity, and 
the man understood that her sex robbed her of nothing 
that could make her his equal in understanding of the 
conditions in which their lives were cast. 

The girl laughed gaily. 

“She says a whole lot of things, Ben/’ she cried. “But 
then you see she’s the mother of six bright kids who’re 
yearning to learn, and she doesn’t guess to let them down, 
or have them tell her instead. Yes, she said that sure, 
when we were wondering how your quitting was going to 
fix us. You see, I’ve depended on your store for trade. 
I guess I was the only supply of pelts that came your way. 
And you were the only supply for our needs. Your folks 
are right,” she added, with a sigh. “You can’t run a 
trading post to hand out to a bunch of kids the stuff that 
makes life reasonable, and for the sake of the few bales 
of furs we’re able to snatch before they fall into the 
hands of foreign poachers. It was sure flogging a dead 
mule. But it’s going to be tough. It’s going to be tough 
for us, as well as for you and your folk. I’ve tried to look 
ahead and see what’s to be done, but I can’t see all I’d like 
to. Mum reckons we’ll get through, but she leaves it to 
Providence and me to say how.” 


8 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


114 

The man bit off a chew of tobacco and shouted some 
orders at the men stowing the last of the stores. His 
words came forcefully amidst a shower of harsh exple~ 
tives. Then he turned again to the girl. 

“I’d say your Mum's as bright a woman as the good 
God ever permitted to use up his best air,” he said, with 
a shake of his grey head. “But I just can’t see how 
trading reindeer with the fool Eskimo up north’s goin’ to 
feed a whole bunch of hungry mouths, and clothe a dandy 
outfit of growin’ bodies right, if there ain’t a near-by 
market for your goods, and a store to trade you the 
things you need. Ther ; ain’t a post from here to Placer, 
which is more than three hundred and fifty miles by the 
river. It kind o’ looks bad to me.” 

“Yes.” 

The smile had passed out of the girl’s eyes, and her 
fair brows had drawn slightly together under the rim of 
her fur cap. 

“You see, Kid,” the man went on, in a tone that was 
almost gentle for all the natural harshness of his voice, 
“I’d be mighty glad to fix you as right as things’ll let me. 
We’ve figgered on this thing all we know, you and me, 
and you’ve a year’s store of canned goods and groceries 
by you paid for by your last bunch of pelts. But after 
that—what?” 

The swift glance of the Kid’s eyes took in the earnest 
expression of the man’s rugged face. She realised his 
genuine concern in spite of all the worries with which his 
own affairs beset him. And forthwith she broke into a 
laugh that completely disarmed. 

“We’ll need to feed caribou meat,” she said. “The 
farm’s plumb full of it. Mum says the good God’s always 
ready to help those who help themselves. And I guess the 
bunch at home’ll do that surely when they find their vitals 


THE CHEECHAKOS 


ii 5 

rattling in the blizzard. Don’t just worry a thing, Ben. 
You’ve done the best for us, you know. For all the grouch 
you hand out to most folk you’re white all thro’. You’re 
forgetting there’s Usak and me. If it means Placer for 
trade and food for the bunch I guess we’ll make it.” 

The girl’s laugh, and her lightness of manner in her 
dismissal of the threat overshadowing her future and that 
of those who were largely her care made their talk easy. 
But there was seriousness and a great courage lying be¬ 
hind it. She knew the nightmare this break up of her 
market was to all those she cared for. But she had no 
intention of adding one single moment of disquiet to the 
burden of the man’s concern for his own future. 

“But it’s a hell of a long piece, Kid,” the factor pro¬ 
tested with a shake of his shaggy grey head. “Couldn’t 
you folks quit too?” 

The girl shook her head while her blue eyes were 
turned on the broad expanse of water where it vanished 
in the south. Perhaps it was the trend of their talk which 
had attracted her gaze in that direction. 

“Surely we could quit if—we had the notion,” she said, 
after a moment’s reflection. “But what if we did? I 
mean how would it help? Maybe I don t know. Placer? 
What if we made Placer where there’s food and trade? 
What could we do? There’s Mum, and my six little 
brothers and sisters, running up like a step-ladder from 
inches to feet. Then there’s Usak, an Indian man who’s 
got no equal as a pelt hunter and trailman. Here we’re 
lords over a limitless territory. We’ve a herd of deer that 
runs into thousands, and reindeer are the beginning and 
end of everything to the Eskimo, but wouldn’t be worth 
dog meat in Placer. Show me. I’m ready to think. We 
can go on making out right here if we only make one trip 
a year to Placer. If we quit, I guess there’d be nothing 


Ii6 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


but the dance halls of Placer you’ve told me about for 
me and my little sisters as they grow up, while Usak, with 
a temper like a she-wolf, would run foul of half the city 
in a week. No. You said a thing once to me, Ben, that’s 
stuck in my stupid head since. What was it? ‘The 
North’s big, an’ free, an’ open, an’ clean. The longer 
you know it the more you’ll curse it. But the feller who’s 
bred to it can’t go back on it. There’s no place on God’s 
earth for him outside it but the hell of perdition.’ I guess 
that fits my notion of—Say, there’s an outfit coming up 
out of the south.” 

The girl broke off. 

She stood pointing out over the water where the river 
seemed to rise out of the distance between two low hill 
breasts. A group of canoes, infinitely small in the dis¬ 
tance, had suddenly leapt into view. 

The man became absorbed in the unaccustomed vision. 
He raised a gnarled hand, broad and muscular for all its 
leanness, and shaded his eyes from the sun-glare. After 
a moment he dropped it to his side. A grim, cynical light 
shone in his eyes. 

“Cheechakos,” he said in profound contempt. 

“How d’you know?” The girl was full of that interest 
and curiosity bred of the solitude in which she lived. 

“They’re loaded down with truck so they look like 
swamping. It’s a big outfit, an’ they look mighty like 
they’ve bought up haf the dry goods the gold city can 
scratch together. Yes. They’re Cheechakos, sure. An* 
they’re huntin’ the gold trail. I can locate ’em at a 
hundred miles. I’ve seen ’em come, but most generally 
go, on every blamed river runnin’ north of Dawson.” 

The girl laughed lightly. 

“To listen to you, Ben, folk might guess you hadn’t 
feeling softer than tamarack for a thing in the world. I 


THE CHEECHAKOS 


ii 7 

want to laugh sure. Sometimes I feel I could shake you 
till the bones rattled in your tough old body. Then I re¬ 
member. An’ I—I don’t want to do a thing but laff. If 
you’re not through with your outfit, and beating it down 
the river by the time those folk happen along I’ll gamble 
a caribou cow to a gopher you’ll be handing them just 
anything you reckon they need, if it’s only the wise old 
talk I know you’re full up to the brim with. You can’t 
bluff me.” 

The girl shook her head and her eyes were full of 
a smiling, almost motherly tenderness for the strong man 
of many years who was tasting the bitterness of real de¬ 
feat. She had known him from the day he first set foot 
at Fort Cupar with that sort of family intimacy which is 
part of the life of the great solitudes. She had been a 
child then. Now she was a grown woman with a mind 
that was simply serious despite her ready laugh, and a 
heart full of deep, womanly sympathy. All life and hope 
still lay before her. This man had gone far beyond the 
meridian of both. He was rapidly approaching those de¬ 
clining years with a great failure to his credit, and she 
realised the tragedy of it. 

“No,” he said. “I guess I can’t bluff you, Kid. You’re 
kind of nimble.” His eyes were still on the approaching 
outfit. “I wonder,” he went on. “That wise old talk 
you reckon I’m full of. Do you fancy me passing it to 
you before I quit, instead of to that bunch of Chee- 
chakos?” 

The girl nodded with a twinkling smile. 

“Sure,” she said. “I’d feel jealous you handing it to 
the others.” 

Ben Needham laughed in that short, dry fashion which 
was his limit of hilarious expression. 

“Well, you best pull your freight out of here before 


n8 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


that bunch of Cheechakos come alongside. Ther’s a whole 
heap o’ things you know, but a sight bigger heap of the 
things you don’t know. The junk that comes up out of 
Placer is mostly junk, mean, human junk. The men of 
the gold trail ain’t like the metal they’re chasing, except 
in the colour of their livers. One of the things I haven’t 
figgered you’re wise to is you’re a gal of nigh twenty, 
and you’ve a face that smiles like spring sunshine, and the 
sort of eyes that makes a man feel like shooting up the 
other feller. Do you get me? Beat it, my dear. You’ve 
a Mum, an’ you’ve got a dandy bunch of brothers an’ 
sisters. You’ve got a home way out there on the Caribou 
River that ain’t ever known a thing but what a good 
woman can make it. Wal, keep things that way. But 
you won’t do it if the muck of the gold trail hits your 
tracks.” 

The girl’s smile had passed as she watched the old man 
expectorate into the clear waters at his feet. She re¬ 
mained completely silent while, in an utterly changed tone, 
he hurled violent expletives at his workers. She looked on 
while he passed down to where the lashings were being 
made fast on the last canoe whose load had just been com¬ 
pleted. When he came back her thoughtful mood had 
passed, and her smile was supreme once more. 

u I’d wanted to see you start out, Ben,” she said gently. 
“You know it’s hard not to be able to speed a real friend, 
when—when— But there, it’s no use. The kids are 
needin’ me, so’s Mum, and Usak and the deer. You’re 
so slow getting away I just can’t stop.” Her gaze wand¬ 
ered again to the approaching outfit, and it was a little 
regretful, and something wistful. “Are all the men of the 
gold trail tough? I mean are they just all bad?” 

The grey head denied her. The man’s cynical smile 
twinkled in his eyes. 


THE CHEECHAKOS 


119 

“The men ain’t no better, an’ no worse than most of 
us,” he said slily. “That is till they get the yellow fever 
of it all. When that gets around they’re mighty sick 
folk till the fever passes. Guess your memory don’t carry 
you back to the days when you weren’t more than knee- 
high to a grasshopper. If it did maybe you’d be wise to 
the thing that’s got a mighty big place in your dandy life. 
It’s gold. The yarns I’m told say it was gold that robbed 
you of a father. It was gold that left you helpless, feed 
for the coyotes that didn’t find you. It was gold,” he 
went on, pointing across the river, “that left them burnt 
out sticks, which one time was your rightful home. Gold, 
I guess, has played a mighty tough part in your life, Kid, 
and maybe it ain’t goin’ to let up. That’s the way of 
things. I’d say you ain’t done with gold yet. You see, 
ther’s the story of that ‘strike’ your father made, an’— 
lost. No,” he added thoughtfully. “It’s goin’ to come 
back on you. An’ that’s why I say beat it. Don’t wait 
around for those folks cornin’ up the river. They got the 
fever bad, I guess, or they wouldn’t be makin’ a country 
that’s cursed by the Euralian fur poachers. Yes. Beat 
it, Kid. Light out. They’re cornin’ right in.” 


The swift stroke reached its length. The Kid lifted the 
paddle from the water and laid it across the little vessel 
in front of her. Resting against the paddling strut she 
craned round and gazed back over the shining waters. 

She had passed the wooded bend of the river, and the 
far-reaching shelter of Fox Bluff completely shut her off 
from observation at the Fort. The landing was hidden; 
so, too, were the three great canoes that were to carry the 
defeated factor and his outfit down the river to those who 
quite possibly would have no further use for his services. 


120 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


Even the Fort itself, on the higher ground of the opposite 
bank, was no longer visible. 

The girl was satisfied. She returned to her labours, for 
the drift of the stream had carried her canoe back some 
few yards. 

It shot forward again, however, under the skilful 
strokes of her strong young arms, and the water 
rippled and sang as it smote the sharp cutwater that 

drove into it. Three miles farther on she had reached 

« 

the limits of the great woods, and the turbulent rapids 
came into view. 

They were the rapids at the junction of the two rivers. 
It was here that the Caribou River disgorged itself upon 
the flood of the greater river. A wide litter of frothing, 
churning popple disported itself over the shallows at the 
mouth of the invading stream. In the passage of time, 
the Caribou had battled its way up out of the south-east. 
It had broken into the sedate course of the Hekor diagon¬ 
ally, meeting its stream defiantly. Final overwhelm¬ 
ing had been its lot, in the process of which a vast stretch 
of sheltering banks had been washed completely out and 
transformed into treacherous shoals. It was the girl's 
immediate objective. 

Again she ceased from her labours and gazed smilingly 
over the distant view. It was alight with a lavish wealth 
of colour, the vivid hues of Arctic blossoms with which 
the ripening sun of spring had set the whole country 
ablaze. Her smile was full of girlish enjoyment. For 
she was thinking of the wise, friendly, cynical old Ben 
Needham and his earnest warning. 

She was thinking of him in no spirit of ridicule, but she 
knew she meant to disregard his warning utterly. It was 
the youth in her. It was the girlish curiosity and a spirit 
of independence that urged her. The world beyond was a 


THE CHEECHAKOS 


121 


sort of dream place of wonder to her; a book whose pages 
were sealed lest her eyes should seek the things that were 
there written. He had warned her that these folk coming 
up out of the south were the Cheechakos of the gold trail. 
He was probably right, but at least they were white folk 
who belonged to that world from which she was wholly 
cut off. It was an opportunity she had no intention of 
missing. She would transform herself into something 
resembling the creatures of the shy world to which she 
belonged. She would lie hidden, and gaze upon these 
strange and terrible people from another world, against 
whom she had been so gravely warned. 

She turned her little vessel sharply towards the bank of 
the river where it rose high, and the last of Fox Bluff 
projected a dense mass of Arctic willow which hung 
down, a perfect screen, till the delicate foliage buried itself 
in the bosom of the stream. A few swift strokes of her 
paddle and she passed from view behind it. 

The nose of her vessel was securely resting on the sticky 
mud of the bank. She had turned about. And now she 
sat waiting, peering out through the foliage as might 
some hunted silver fox, whose pelt was one of the chief 
objects of her trade. She gave no sign, she made no 
sound. She had no intention of revealing her presence. 
But she would see for herself the thing she must shun, 
the thing whose presence in her home she must always 
deny. 

It was a long waiting, but it mattered nothing. The 
daylight was almost unending now, and anyway time had 
small enough bearing on the simple affairs of her life. She 
had time for the indulgence of every whim, and the youth 
in her prompted a full measure of such indulgence. 

A happy excitement thrilled her. Everything that lifted 
her out of the humdrum routine of her life on the farm 


122 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


became an exhilarating excitement. She was completely 
happy in her life. She was happy in her support of the 
mother woman labouring in her home for her many off¬ 
spring, she was happy in her association with the Indian, 
Usak, whose untiring labours had built up the great rein¬ 
deer farm of which he had assured her she was mistress. 
But her mind was groping amongst a world of girlish 
dreams, yearning and full of unspoken, unadmitted de¬ 
sires. A subtle restlessness was at work in her, and it 
found expression in the impulse which had become so 
irresistible. All her life had been bounded by narrow 
limits of association. Her only human associations had 
always been those of her far-off home, and the trading 
post with its factor, and those men of the fur trail who 
foregathered about its staunch walls. Here, for the first 
time, was something new. And more than all it was 
something that was prohibited. 


The two men were gazing out at the churning waters 
storming over the shoals, and the outlook was threatening. 
They were standing on the low bank, trampling underfoot 
the carpet of flowers which grew in profusion down to 
the very edge of the river. They were surveying the junc¬ 
tion of the two rivers where the Caribou broke its way 
into the flood of the Hekor, and the endless battle of con¬ 
flicting streams was being fought out. The cauldron of 
boiling rapids extended for nearly two miles. 

Wilder raised a sunburnt hand and crushed the blood 
glutted bodies of half a hundred mosquitoes on the back 
of his powerful neck. 

“It’s portage, sure, Chilcoot,’ , he said, with that finality 
which denoted a mind made up. “I don’t see a passage 


THE CHEECHAKOS 


123 


anywhere fit to take the big boats. I’d say the stream’s 
deep this side under the bank, but we can’t chance 

things.” 

Chilcoot Massy chewed on for a moment in deep con¬ 
templation. He was a silent creature, squat, powerful 
and grey-headed, with the hard-beaten face of a pugilist. 
He was a product of the northern gold trail whose ex¬ 
perience went far back to the first rush over the Skagway 
in ’98, and looked it all in the rough buckskin and cord 
clothing in which he was clad. He was Bill Wilder’s 
chief lieutenant; a man whose force and courage was 
unabated for all his years, and whose restless spirit denied 
him the comfort and leisure which the ample wealth he 
had achieved in association with his friend and one-time 
employer, entitled him to. 

“It certainly looks that way,” he agreed. Then he de¬ 
murred. “You never can tell on these rivers,” he said. 
“We’d have done a heap better breaking down our out¬ 
fit, an’ takin’ on a bigger bunch of lighter canoes. Maybe 
we’ll run into this sort of stuff right away up the river as 
we get nearer the headwaters.” 

Wilder shook his head. 

“That trader feller didn’t reckon that way,” he said. 
“There isn’t a thing to worry from here to the Great 
Falls,” he said. “And Loon Creek is twenty miles this 
side of them. We’re liable to find it tough on the creek. 
But that’s not new. We’ll be at work then with a fixed 
headquarters, and we can travel light. Ben Needham said 
we could get through this stuff if we fancied taking a 
chance. He guessed if we knew it there wasn’t any sort 
of chance about it. Well, we don’t know it. And I’m 
taking no chances. You see, there’s more to this thing 
than chasing a simple gold trail.” He laughed. “Guess 
we aren’t civilians any longer. We’re police. You and 


124 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


me, and Mike. And we’ve got our orders from our 
superiors who don’t stand for disobedience. We’re being 
paid a dollar a day to make good. And I don’t reckon 
the police pay out such a powerful bunch of money to 
folks to make a failure. Come right on. We’ll get back 
and eat. Then we’ll start in on the portage.” 

They re-traced their steps to the camp that had been 
pitched well below the rough waters. 

It was a busy scene. The five great laden canoes were 
moored nose on to the bank, and two smaller vessels were 
drawn up clear of the water on the mud. It was an im¬ 
posing fleet, equipped to the last detail, and old Ben Need¬ 
ham had done it less than justice when he had 
contemptuously characterised it for the benefit of the Kid. 
This was no Cheechako outfit laden with the useless 
equipment engendered of inexperience. 

It was an equipment such as only the wide experience of 
Wilder and Chilcoot could have designed. It was made 
up of everything which the outlands of the North de¬ 
manded, from dogs and sleds to a miniature army of 
Breeds and hard-living whitemen, armed to encounter 
human hostility as well as the fiercest onslaughts of 
Nature’s most antagonistic moods. Furthermore, full 
preparation for a long sojourn in an inhospitable region 
had been made. 

Hot food had been made ready when they reached the 
camp, and dogs and men were busily engaged satisfying 
keen appetite for all the fierce heat of the day and the 
shadelessness prevailing everywhere. The leader’s camp 
had been set apart, and Red Mike, a red-haired, giant 
Irishman, whose only sober moments were breathed be¬ 
yond the drink-laden atmosphere of the dance halls of 
Placer, was awaiting their return. He was third in com¬ 
mand, and his responsibility was that of quartermaster, 


THE CHEECHAKOS 


125 

and river man, and for the discipline of the ruffian crew 
of the expedition. His greeting was characteristic. 

“Chance is the salt of life,” he cried, in a pleasant 
brogue, addressing Wilder. “Are we takin’ it, boss?” 

Wilder shook his head. 

“No,” he said. 

“Then sure you’ll set in an’ eat,” was the prompt retort. 
“Guess portage was invented by the divil himself, an’ the 
Holy Fathers don’t reckon we need to get in a hurry 
knockin’ at Hell's gates. This sow-belly’s as tough as dried 
snakes. I don’t seem to notice even the flies yearning. 
Tea? Gee! It’s poor sort of hooch, even when you’ve 
skimmed the stewed flies clear. I—Mother of Snakes! 
Wher’ did that come from?” 

The man’s blue eyes were turned on the shining waters. 
His roving gaze had been caught by the sight of a small 
hide kyak heading for the camp. It was propelled by a 
single paddle dipping in the noiseless fashion which be¬ 
longs to the river Indians. And he squatted with a 
mouthful of sow-belly poised ready to be devoured. 

Chilcoot had flung his length on the ground, but Bill 
Wilder was still standing. His eyes were turned at once 
on the approaching vessel. 

Red Mike laughed. 

“That trader guy’s sent us along a scout,” he said. 
“He’s a reas’nable sort of citizen. I guess that Injun’s 
goin’ to save us portage.” 

Wilder shook his head. 

“Needham was all in beating it down river. And any- 

_ >> 
way— 

“He wouldn’t be passin’ us along a white gal to show 
us them rapids.” 

Chilcoot was sitting up. His hard face was wearing 
a grin that might well have seemed impossible to it. And 


126 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


he spoke with an assurance that brought the Irishman to 
his feet, with his food thrown aside as though it were the 
last thing to be desired at such a moment. 

The kyak approached the bank within some twenty 
yards. Then with a thrust of the paddle the Kid held 
it up and sat contemplating the men on the shore. 

The whole camp was agog. The crews lounging over 
their rough trail food watched the intruder curiously. 
But seemingly they had missed, in the sunburnt figure, 
clad in familiar mannish buckskin, the thing which the 
lightning eye of Chilcoot had discovered on the instant. 

Wilder and Red Mike passed hastily down the bank 
while the older man followed more leisurely. 

It was just a little difficult. Once the men reached the 
waterside Chilcoot’s assertion was left beyond question. 
Had the intruder been a man, greeting and possible invita¬ 
tion would have been forthcoming on the instant. As it 
was even the Irishman was reduced to silence in sheer 
amazement. The girl was less than twenty yards away 
beyond the vessels moored, a rampart between herself and 
the Cheechakos against whom the factor had warned her. 
Her beautiful blue eyes were unsmiling. Her sunburnt 
face was almost painfully serious. And her whole man¬ 
ner, and her attitude told the men on the bank that her 
approach had definite meaning which had nothing to do 
with idle curiosity. So they waited, and finally the diffi¬ 
culty was solved by the girl herself. 

“You’re getting ready for portage ?” she called across 
the water. 

“That’s so.” 

It was Wilder who replied to her, and a smile lit his 
angular face as he noted the sweetly girlish tones of the 
voice that reached him. 

“You don’t need to,” came back the Kid’s prompt 


THE CHEECHAKOS 


127 


reply, and her paddle stirred in the water and her little 
vessel crept in towards the laden canoes. “There’s a deep 
channel. It’s right along under the bank, and it’ll take the 
biggest boat you’ve got without a worry.” 

Wilder stepped on to the nearest vessel and moved 
down its length. The prow of the girl’s canoe had come 
within a yard of him, and he looked down into the wide 
eyes gazing so confidently up into his. 

“That’s just kind of you,” he said, in a tone he in¬ 
tended should escape the listening ears behind him. “It’s 
a mighty big proposition portaging this outfit, and I was 
feeling kind of reluctant.” He withdrew his gaze from 
the fascinating picture of the white girl in the boat and 
glanced in the direction she had indicated. “The channel 
cuts in under this bank, you say? And it’s clear all the 
way?” 

“Sure.” 

The Kid’s bright eyes were measuring. In her mind 
was the haunting memory of old Ben’s warning, but 
somehow it was powerless before her inclination and the 
sight of this large man with his steady, good-looking eyes, 
and wholesome, clean-shaven face. Her confidence in¬ 
creased and her impulse became irresistible. 

“If you feel like it I’ll give you a lead,” she said. “I 
know it by heart. You see,” she added, with simple con¬ 
clusiveness, “I was raised on this river.” 

Wilder nodded. His smiling eyes had come back again 
to the girl’s face as she sat with her paddle stirring in the 
water to keep her place against the stream. 

“Did Ben Needham send you along?” he asked. 

“Oh, no,” the Kid denied frankly. “I just saw you 
pass up stream and guessed you were strangers. So—” 

She broke off. In a moment she realised her mistake 
from the flash of inquiry she saw in the man’s eyes. 


128 THE LUCK OF THE KID 

“I don’t remember passing you on the river,” he said 
quickly. 

The girl’s moment of confusion passed, and frank 
impulse again took hold of her. She laughed happily, 
and the man felt the infection of it. 

“I saw you coming an’ took cover,” she said simply. 
“I guessed you were Cheechakos and reckoned I’d take a 
look—at a distance.” 

“Why did you take—cover? There wasn’t need?” 

“No.” The Kid shook her head a little dubiously. 
“There wasn’t real need. Only—” 

“Yes?” 

“Well, anyway I’ll be glad to pass you through the 
rapids if it’ll help you. It’ll save you more than a day.” 

“I’ll be grateful. I—wonder.” 

“What?” 

“You see, my name’s Wilder—Bill Wilder. And I 
was wondering what yours was.” 

Again the girl broke into a happy laugh and the gold 
man, in sheer delight, joined in. Somewhere out of the 
blue a pretty white girl, with blue eyes and a wealth of 
fair hair, clad in the vividly ornamented buckskin which 
he associated only with the Indian, had descended upon 
him at a time and place when he had only looked for the 
roughness of the northern trail. It was all a little 
amazing. It was all rather absurd. And she was offering 
to pass him practical help in the work in which he had 
always believed himself complete master. 

“I’m—the Kid,” she returned presently. 

“Is that your name?” 

The girl shook her head and her smile was irresistible. 

“No,” she said. “But it’s how I’m known all along the 

o JJ 

river. 

“Then I guess it’s good enough for me.” Bill Wilder 


THE CHEECHAKOS 


129 


drew a quick breath. “Well, Kid,” he went on with a 
smile, “we were just about to eat. Will you step ashore 
and join us ? Then, after, I’ll be mighty glad to have you 
pass us up those rapids.” 

The smile died abruptly out of the girl’s eyes. She 
remembered Ben Needham and his warning. 

“You’re Cheechakos—on the gold trail?” she asked. 

Bill laughed. The whole position suddenly dawned on 
him. 

“No,” he said. “No, Kid. We’re an outfit on the gold 
trail, sure,” he went on quite seriously. “But we’re 
decent citizens. And there’s not a thing to this camp to 
scare you. Will you come right ashore?” 

For answer the girl’s paddle stirred more deeply and 
the nose of her canoe shot up to the vessel on which the 
man was standing. He held out one brown hand to assist 
her, but it was ignored. The Kid rose to her feet, tall 
and beautifully slim, and sprang on to the vessel beside 
him, carrying her own mooring rope of rawhide in her 
hand. 

“I’m kind of glad you ain’t—Cheechakos,” she said. 

And they both laughed as they passed back together 
over the bales of outfit with which the boat was laden, 
and reached the river bank where Chilcoot and Mike were 
waiting for them. 


9 


CHAPTER III 


REINDEER FARM 

The Indian, Usak, and the Kid were standing in the 
great enclosure where three half-breed Eskimos were 
engaged in the operation of breaking young buck reindeer 
to the sled work of the trail. They took no part in it. 
It was the daily occupation in the springtime of the year. 
It began before the break-up of winter, when it was con¬ 
ducted with heavily weighted sleds, and, with the passing 
of the snow it was continued with the long pole carryalls, 
which is the Eskimo means of transport over land in 
summer. The carryall was in use now and it was an 
interesting struggle between the skill of the squat, sturdy, 
brown-skinned breakers, and the half-scared, half-angry 
fighting will of a finely grown buck deer whose ragged 
coat of winter gave him the size of a three-year-old 
steer. 

Haltered, and ranged along the rough-poled fence of 
the great corral stood twenty or thirty young bucks 
awaiting their turn in the rawhide harness, and they 
gazed round on the spectacle of their fighting brother 
with eyes of mild wonder at the commotion he was creat¬ 
ing. Otherwise they seemed utterly unconcerned in their 
gentle submissiveness. They were all man-handled and 
tame. They had been handled almost from their birth, 
for the whole success of the farm depended on the turn¬ 
ing out of fully broken cattle, trained for the work of 

130 


REINDEER FARM 


131 

transport within the Arctic, where the Eskimo estimate 
them above every other means of traversing the vast 
spaces of snow and ice, or the barren, lichen-grown ter¬ 
ritory of summer over which they were wont to roam. 

The great deer was quieting down. His sense of the 
indignity of the forked carryall resting on his high 
withers seemed to be passing. His wild jumps and 
slashing forefeet were less violent, and his snortings of 
fear and anger were replaced by meaningless shakings of 
the graceful head on which his annual re-growth of 
antlers was only just beginning to display itself. Finally, 
under the skilful handling of the breakers, good-temper 
prevailed, and the beautiful creature was induced to 
move forward dragging the boulder-weighted poles with 
their ends resting on the ground. 

“Him good buck,” Usak said approvingly, as the men 
led the now docile creature round the circle of the break¬ 
ing track. 

“Yes.” 

The Kid had nothing to add. Truth to tell for once 
she had little interest in the work the result of which 
represented the livelihood, the whole fortunes of them all. 
Her thoughts were far away, somewhere miles along the 
broad course of the Hekor River. She was thinking of 
her previous day’s adventure, and her pretty eyes reflected 
her thoughts. Somehow her mood had lost its buoyancy. 
Somehow the years of happy life on this far-off northern 
homestead seemed to have dropped away behind her. 
Something had broken the spell of it. Something had 
robbed it of half its simple, happy associations. 

Gazing upon the mild-eyed creature now gracefully 
pacing the well-worn track under the careful guidance of 
the dark-skinned men of the North, she was thinking of 
a pair of clear-gazing, fearless honest eyes which had 


132 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


looked into hers with a man’s kindly smile for something 
more weak and tender than himself, for something that 
stirred his sense of chivalry to its deepest. She under¬ 
stood nothing of his emotions, and little enough of her 
own. She only remembered the smile and the kindness, 
and the man whose outfit she had unfalteringly guided up 
the open channel of the river where it skirted the deadly 
rapids. And somehow, her adventure marked an epoch 
in her life which had completely broken the hitherto 
monotonous continuity of it. 

Bill Wilder. The man’s name was no less graven on 
her memory than was the recollection of his great stature 
and the lean face which had so re-assured her of the hon¬ 
esty and ability which old Ben Needham’s warning had 
denied him. She remembered the half hour she had 
squatted in company of these men, sharing in their rough, 
midday meal, and listening to, and taking part, in their 
talk. It had been a thrilling excitement, not one detail of 
which would she have missed for all the world. It had 
been a deliriously happy time. She remembered how the 
man called Mike had pressed her to say where she lived, 
and to tell them the name to which she was born, and she 
remembered the sharp fashion in which, at the first sign 
of reluctance on her part, remembering as she had Ben’s 
warning, Bill Wilder had told him to mind his business. 

Then had come her little moment of triumph when 
she had passed the outfit up the open channel. How she 
had nursed it, and delivered her orders to the men behind. 
How she had taken Wilder himself a passenger in her 
pilot kyak, and left him wondering at her skill and 
knowledge. Then had come the parting with her new 
friends, when the man had told her in his quiet assured 
fashion that someday they would meet again when his 
work was done. Someday he would come back, perhaps 


REINDEER FARM 


133 


in two years, and wait by the rapids till she appeared. 
And then on the impulse of the moment she had said there 
would be no need for him to wait by the rapids. All he 
had to do was to turn off into the mouth of the Caribou 
River and pass some ten miles up its course. 

She was wondering and dreaming now. Her wonder 
was if the man would remember his promise, and her 
simply given invitation. And her dreaming was of a 
steady pair of grey eyes that haunted her no matter where 
she gazed and robbed her of all interest in the things 
which had never before failed to hold her deepest concern. 

“We mak fifty buck ready,” Usak went on, failing to 
realise the girl’s abstraction. “Fifty good dam buck. 
An’ I mak north an’ mak plenty big trade. Yes?” He 
shook his head, and his dark eyes, a shade more sunken 
with the passing of years, but lacking nothing of the 
passionate fire of his earlier days, took on a moody light. 
“Us mak no good plenty trade no more. No. I go east, 
Vay nor-east plenty far. All time more far as I go. 
What I mak? Fox? Yes. Beaver? Yes. Maybe I 
mak wolf bear. I mak small truck. No seal. No ivory. 
No anything good. Now I mak none. Not little bit. 
Him Euralian mak east. All time him go east, too. 
Him eat up all fur. Eskimo all much scare. Him go 
all time farther. So I not mak him.” 

The man’s half angry protest impressed itself upon the 
girl. Her pre-occupied gaze came back to his dark, 
saturnine face. An ironical smile played for a moment in 
the blue of her eyes. 

“Does it matter, Usak?” she asked. “Old Ben Need¬ 
ham has gone, an’ the store’s closed down. If you made 
good trade I guess we’d be left with it piling in our store.” 
She shook her head almost disconsolately. “Ther’s only 
Placer for us now. We’ll need to make the trip once a 


134 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


year, and trade the small truck we can scratch together. 
It’s that or-” 

The girl broke off. Ben Needham had gone. Bill 
Wilder and his party had vanished up the river. Quite 
suddenly the desolation of it all seemed complete. 

There was moisture in her eyes as she turned from the 
man’s dark face to the familiar scenes about her. The 
wide Caribou River Valley was bright green with a 
wealth of summer grass and tiny flowers which the spring 
floods had left behind them. The river was shrunken 
now to its normal bed in the heart of the valley, which 
was walled in by high shoulders separated by nearly two 
miles of flat. So it went on for many miles; sometimes 
narrowing, sometimes widening. Sometimes the valley 
was almost barren of all but the Arctic lichens. Some¬ 
times it was filled with wind-swept pine bluffs, often 
dwarfed, but occasionally extensive and of primordial 
characteristics. The farm was set in a deep shelter of a 
bluff of the latter kind. The house lay behind them, 
nestling just within great lank trees that in turn were 
sheltered by a granite spur of the great walls which lined 
the course of the valley. It was a crude but snug enough 
home. It was a structure that had grown as the mood 
and ability of Usak, and the needs of those who had 
elected to share it with him, had prompted. 

It was seven years since the change had taken place. 
Before that, for eight long years, it had been the 
home of the child Felice and her Indian, self-appointed, 
guardian. Usak had been as good as his word. Felice 
had been left to the care of Hesther and Jim McLeod 
while he went on his mission of vengeance after he had 
been left wifeless, and Felice had been left a helpless 
orphan. He had returned as he said he would. He had 
returned to claim the orphaned child of his “good boss.” 



REINDEER FARM 


135 


The whiteman and his wife had been reluctant. They 
had realised their duty. Usak was an Indian, and they 
felt that in giving the child into his keeping they were 
committing a serious wrong. 

But it so happened that with the return of Usak from 
his journey into the great white void of the North, the 
story of which he refused to reveal, Hesther’s first baby 
was about to be born. And the coming of that new life 
pre-occupied both husband and wife to the exclusion of 
all else, and helped to blind them to their sense of duty. 
So the Indian’s appeal had double force. And finally they 
yielded, convinced of the man’s honesty, convinced that 
in denying him they would have inflicted a grievous 
wound on the already distraught creature. 

So Usak had come into possession of the treasure he 
claimed as an offset to the monstrous grief of his own 
personal loss, and he set about the task of raising the 
child with the inimitable devotion of a single-minded 
savage. 

The man had laboured for her with every waking 
moment. He had laboured to replace the mother woman 
who had nursed her, and the great white father whom 
he had loved. He had laboured to build up about her 
the farm which was to yield her that means of livelihood 
which his simple understanding warned him that Marty, 
himself, would have desired for her. 

It had been a great struggle with his limited education 
and only his savage mind to guide him in the barter 
which was the essence of the success he desired. Then, 
too, with each passing year the depredations of the 
invading Euralians spread wider and wider afield as the 
central control, which apparently had always existed, 
seemed to lose its grip on the rapidly increasing numbers 
of the foreign marauders. Futhermore, his trade with 


136 THE LUCK OF THE KID 

the little people of the Arctic had in consequence receded 
farther and farther, till, as he had just said, it had passed 
almost beyond his reach. 

So things had gone on till eight years had passed and 
the dark eyes of the man saw the womanly development 
of the pretty white child. Then had happened another 
one of those strokes of ill-fortune which so often react 
in a direction quite undreamed. 

Hesther and Jim McLeod had developed a family of 
three boys and three girls in the course of the eight years. 
Trade was bad, and the threat of closing down the store 
was always hanging over them. Then, one day, in the 
depths of the terrible Arctic winter, the man was taken 
ill with pneumonia, and, in a week, Hesther was left a 
widow with six small children and no one to turn to for 
support and comfort, and with little more in the world 
than the shelter of the store, and such food as it provided, 
until the Fur Valley Company should remove her and 
replace her dead husband with a new Factor. 

The Company dealt fairly, if coldly, with her. Ben 
Needham was sent up to replace the dead Jim McLeod 
at the opening of spring. And the widow and her 
children were to be brought down to Dawson, and, forth¬ 
with sent on to such destination as she desired. The 
Company gave her travelling expenses, and a sum of 
money to help her along. And that was to be the limit 
of its obligations. 

But Hesther McLeod had definite ideas. Her cheerful 
optimism and gentle philosophy never for a moment 
deserted her. During the dark months of winter, when 
she was left with only the ghost of her dead, she strove 
with all the calm she possessed to review the thing which 
life had done to her. She was quite unblinded to the 
seriousness of her position. She probed to the last 


REINDEER FARM 


137 


detail all it meant to those lives belonging to her which 
were only just beginning. And finally the decision she 
took had nothing in it of the promptings of hard sense, 
but came from somewhere deep down in a gentle, brave, 
motherly heart. 

She would not quit the country in which had been con¬ 
summated all the joys of motherhood. Her children 
were of the North, and should be raised men and women 
of the great wide country which had yielded her all the 
real emotions of her life. She would stay. She would 
take the pittance which the Company offered, but the 
North should remain her home. And curiously enough 
the main thought prompting her heroic decision was the 
memory of the white girl she had handed over to the 
care of the Indian, Usak. 

The rest had been easy to a creature of her simple 
practice. Usak was forthwith consulted, and the loyal 
creature jumped at the idea that the whitewoman and her 
children should make their home on the farm he was so 
ardently labouring to build up for the daughter of his 
“good boss.” 

In short order the three-roomed log shanty grew. It 
spread out in any convenient direction under the man’s 
indefatigable labours, and the mother’s domestic mind. 
A room here was added. A room there. And so it went 
on, regardless of all proportion, but with keen regard 
for necessity and convenience. And Hesther brought all 
her chattels with her from the store, and her busy hands 
and invincible courage swiftly turned the place into a real 
home for the children, and everything else calculated for 
the well-being of the lives it was her cherished desire to 
do her best for. 

So in the course of years, sometimes under overwhelm¬ 
ing difficulties, Felice, who, from the start had been af- 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


138 

fectionately designated “the Kid,” had grown up to 
womanhood, taught to read and write and sew by 
Hesther, and made adept in the laborious work of the 
farm and trail and river by Usak. 

And through every struggle, under the radiance of the 
mother’s courage and sweetness of temper, and watched 
over by the fierce dark eyes of the devoted Indian, it 
had always been a home of happiness and hope. And this 
despite the fact that every factor to make for hope was 
steadily diminishing. 

The Indian was in the mood for plain speaking now. 
And the Kid, her mind disturbed out of its usual calm 
by her recent adventure, was eagerly responsive. 

The Indian shook his head so that his lank hair swept 
the greasy collar of his buckskin shirt. 

“The good boss your father, him speak much wise. 
Him say-” 

“I know,” the Kid broke in impulsively, and with some 
impatience. “Guess you’ve told me before. ‘When the 
fox sheds his coat the winds blow warm.’ We know 
about that, don’t we?” She smiled for all her real dis¬ 
tress. “But I’d say Nature’s mighty little to do with 
human trade. When ther’s no food in the house we’ll have 
to go hungry, or live on caribou meat. Say, can you see us 
sitting around with the wind whistling through our 
bones? Does the notion tell you anything? It won’t 
blow warmer because Mary Justicia, an’ Clarence, an’ 
Algernon, an’ Percy, an’ Gladys Anne, an’ Jane Con¬ 
stance are hungry. It won’t be so bad for mother, an’ 
me, an’ you. We’re grown. And it won’t be the first 
time we’ve been hungry. No. It’s no use. You and me, 
we’ll have to make Placer, where the folks drink and 
gamble, and dance, most all the time, and, when they get 
the chance, rob the folks who don’t know better. We’ll 



REINDEER FARM 


139 


have to make the river trail once a year and buy the truck 
we need with the furs we can scrape together. It’s that 
or quit.” 

For some moments the man’s resentful eyes watched 
the harnessing of a fresh buck. The creature bellowed 
and pawed the ground with slashing, wide-spreading 
hoofs. 

“We mak ’em, yes,” he said, as the beast quietened 
down. Then he broke into a sudden fierce expletive. It 
was the savage temper of the man as he thought of the 
cause of all their woes. “Tcha!” he cried, and his white, 
strong teeth bared. “They kill your father. They kill 
Pri-loo. Now they kill up all trade—dead. I go all mad 
inside. I tak ’em in my two hand, an’—an’ I choke ’em 
dis life out of ’em. I know. They mak it so we all die 
dead. No pelts, no food, no deer. So we not wake up 
no more. Your father—him live—plenty much gold. 
Oh, big plenty. Us rich. Us not care for trade. Us 
buy ’em up all thing. Yes.” His dark eyes were on the 
movements of the men with the deer. But he saw 
nothing. Only the vision which his passionate heart 
conjured out of the back cells of memory. “Bimeby,” 
he went on at last, in a tone that was ominously quiet, 
“I mak one big trip. I go by the river so I come by the 
big hills. Maybe I mak big trade that place.” His eyes 
shone with a fierce smile. “Oh, yes, maybe. Then maybe 
I come back. An’ when I come back then us break big 
trail an’ quit. I know him dis trail. Great big plenty 
long trail. Us come by the big river an’ the big lakk 
The good boss, your father speak plenty him name. 
M’Kenzie. Oh, yes. M’Kenzie River. Much heap fur. 
All fur. Seal, bear, beaver, silver fox. Much, oh much. 
Black fox, too. All him fur. Plenty Eskimo. Plenty 
trader mans. Us not mak him Placer. Oh, no. Plenty 



140 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


whiteman by Placer. Him see little Felice, white girl 
Kid, him steal him. Oh, yes. Usak know. Him steal 
up all child, too. So. Missis Hesther, too. They mak 
Felice to dance plenty an’ drink the fire water. Not so 
Hesther woman. Him mak him work. All time work. 
Him old. Not so as Felice. So I go by the trail. Bimeby 
I come back. Then us mak big trail. Yes?” 

In spite of herself the Kid was interested. But her 
interest was for that part of the man’s planning which 
related to the mysterious journey which the Indian 
declared his intention of taking. The talk of the 
McKenzie was by no means new to her. She had heard 
it all before. It was the dream place of the Indian’s 
mind, which the talk of her dead father had inspired. 
She shook her head as her eyes followed the docile move¬ 
ments of the newly broken buck. 

“Why must you go up the river to the big hills?” she 
asked seriously. “That’s new. The other isn’t.” 

The man shrugged his angular shoulders. 

“I just go. An’ I come back.” 

“What for?” 

The blue eyes were searching the dark face narrowly. 
But the man refused to be drawn. 

“It plenty good place by the hills. Maybe I get fur. 
Maybe—gold. I not know. Sometime I dream dis thing. 
I go by the hills, an’ then I—come back. I know. Oh, 
yes.” 

“I see.” 

The girl smiled, and the Indian responded for all his 
mood. This girl was as the sun, moon, and stars of his 
life. 

“Say, Usak,” she went on, with a little laugh, “maybe 
I guess about this. You have a friend there by the hills. 
A woman eh? That so?” 


REINDEER FARM 


141 


“Maybe.” 

The man’s eyes were sparkling as they grinned back 
into the Kid’s face. But it was a different smile from 
that of the moment before. 

“Then I don’t figger I better ask any more,” the girl 
said simply. “But we’re not going to the McKenzie. 
We’re not going to quit here—yet. No. We’re going to 
make such trade as maybe at Placer first. Later, if we 
figger it’s too worrying to make Placer, then we’ll think 
of McKenzie, an’ you I guess’ll be free to go right along 
an’ say good-bye to your lady friend up in the hills. Let’s 
get this fixed right now. You guess this farm is mine, 
my father started it for me. An’ you, big Indian that you 
are, have done all you know to make it right for me. 
Well, I guess it’s up to me to figger the thing I’m going 
to do. That’s all right. I’ve figgered. So has our little 
mother. We’re goin’ to give this change two summers’ 
trial. And after that, if things are still bad, why, we’ll 
think about—McKenzie.” 

The Kid’s manner was decided. Usak was an Indian, 
a man of extraordinary capacity and wonderful devotion. 
But from her earliest days he had taught Felice that the 
farm was hers and he was her servant. And the child 
had grown to feel and know her authority, and the dif¬ 
ference which colour made between them. Whatever the 
man proposed, hers was the final decision. And for all 
her real, deep regard for the man who had raised her, 
she understood he was still her servant. 

Now her decision was taken out of something that had 
no relation to the welfare of those depending upon it. It 
had nothing to do with the prosperity of the farm. It had 
nothing to do with wisdom or judgment. It was inspired 
by one thing only. The man whom she had passed up 
the rapids had said he would come back. And she had 


142 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


told him to seek her ten miles up the Caribou River. 
Two summers. Yes. He must surely be back in that 
time. If not—well, perhaps, the McKenzie would be 
preferable to the Hekor if he had not returned in that 
time. 

A shrill of childish voices broke upon the quiet of the 
sunlit corral, and Usak turned as a troop of children came 
racing across to where they were standing. Mary 
Justicia, by reason of her long bare legs and superior age, 
led the way. And she was followed in due sequence of 
ages by Clarence, Algernon, Percy, Gladys Anne, and 
the rear was brought up by Jane Constance, a brown¬ 
faced, curly-headed girl of about seven years. They 
were all bare-legged, and the boys were scarcely clad at all 
above the buckskin of their breeches. But they were full 
to the brim of reckless animal spirits and the perfect 
health provided by a life lived almost entirely in the 
open. 

“Kid! Ho, Kid! Kid! Kid! Kid!” 

The name rang out in a chorus of summons ranging 
from the rough, breaking voice of Clarence to the almost 
baby treble of Jane Constance. 

The Kid swung about as the youthful avalanche swept 
down upon her, and, in a moment, she was almost 
smothered by the struggling children reaching to get hold 
of some part of her clothing. There could be no mistake. 
Adoration was shining in every eye as the children 
reached her. There was laughter and a babel of voices 
as they took possession of her and started to drag her 
towards the house where dinner was waiting ready. 

Usak looked on without a word. He was more than 
content. The girl had given him her decision as to the 
future, and though it clashed with his own ideas it was 
her decision, and, therefore, would be obeyed. He was 


REINDEER FARM 


143 


as nearly happy as his fierce, passionate temper would 
permit. These children in their amazing hero worship of 
their older sister, as they considered her, had his entire 
approval. They were only little less to him than the 
Kid. He was Indian and they were white. And the big 
heart of the man thrilled at the thought that these helpless 
whites were no less his charge than the grown woman- 
child of his “good boss.” 


They were ranged about the rough table for their 
midday meal. The step-ladder sequence of their ages and 
sizes was only broken by the presence of the Kid, who 
sat at one end of it between Algernon, of the red-head 
and freckles, and the grey-eyed Percy, who was the born 
trader of the community. Hester McLeod, grey of 
hair for all her comparative youth, smiling, small, and 
workworn sat at the head of the table between the head 
and tail of her reckless brood. Mary Justicia was at her 
right, a pretty, black-haired angular girl of nearly fifteen, 
ready to minister to everyone’s wants, a sort of telephonic 
communication with the cookstove, and Jane Constance, 
with her mass of brown curls, and a face more than 
splashed with the stew she was devouring, on her left. 

At the moment they were all hungrily devouring, and 
silence, only broken by sounds of mastication, prevailed. 
Each child had a tin platter of venison stew to consume, 
and a beaker of hot tea was set close to their hands. 
They fed themselves with spoons as being the most con¬ 
venient weapons, and attacked the fare, which was more 
or less their daily menu, with an appetite that was utterly 
unimpaired through monotony of diet. 

The Kid looked up from her food. For a moment her 
fond eyes dwelt on the unkempt ragamuffins gathered 


144 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 




about the table. There was not one of the six that was 
without individual interest for her. They often plagued 
her, but right down to the generally incoherent Jane 
Constance they looked to her in everything, from their 
games, to the needs of their growing bodies. She loved 
them all for just what they were, unkempt, often up to 
their eyes in dirt and mischief. But more than all she 
loved the patient, mild-eyed woman at the head of the 
crazy table, whose purpose in life seemed to be the whole 
and complete sacrifice of self. 

Her gaze wandered over the mud-plastered walls of 
the living room of this Indian-built shauty. Every crack 
in it, every uneven contour of the green logs of which it 
was constructed, was known to her by heart. There were 
no decorations. There were no other furnishings but the 
table, and the benches on which the children sat for their 
food and lessons, and a makeshift cupboard in which 
were stored groceries, and such domestic articles as 
Hesther had been able to bring with her from the Fort. 
It was all crude. It was all unlovely, except for the 
wealth of generous humanity it sheltered. But every 
roughness it contained was bound up with simple happi¬ 
ness for the girl, and the memory of long years of 
childish delights. 

“We're going to give it two years’ trial, Mum,” she 
said, while the children’s voices were held silent. “It’s 
the best we can do, I guess, now old Ben’s pulled out. 
You’ll have to make out the best you know while Usak 
and I beat down the river to Placer once a year. Maybe 
it won’t be so bad for you now with Clarence and Alg. 
nearly grown men, and Mary fit to run the whole bunch 
herself. If things don’t get worse, and we make good 
trade in Placer I guess we’ll scratch along right here till 
the boys are full grown. Then we’ll see the thing best to 


REINDEER FARM 


145 


be done. If things get worse Usak wants to make 
McKenzie River. He’s crazy for the McKenzie Valley. 
With him it’s the thing to fix everything right.” 

The mild-eyed mother reached out with a handful of 
apron and wiped away the lavish helping of stew which 
had embedded itself in Jane Constance’s thick brown 
curls. The smears on her chubby face were hopeless. 
They could remain for the wash tub afterwards. 

“I guess it’s what you say, Kid,” she acquiesced. “The 
good God gave me two hands and the will to work. But 
I guess he forgot about the means of guessin’ right when 
things got awry. The twins are some men—now,” she 
went on fondly, gazing with pride upon Clarence and 
Algernon, with his fiery red-head, the possession of 
which was always a mystery to her contented mind. 
“We’ll make out. Eh, Mary?” she cried, turning to the 
dark-eyed girl who was her eldest child. “Things don’t 
figger to worry you if you don’t worry them, I say. 
When do you pull out?” 

“When the breaking’s through, and the deer are ready 
for the winter trail. The season’s good with us if we 
could only get the pelts. We’ve more deer to trade than 
we’ve ever had before.” 

Percy looked up, his grey eyes alight. 

“Why don’t we quit trade and chase up that gold 
Usak’s always yarning about,” he said eagerly. “It’s 
yours, Kid. Leastways it was your paw’s. We wouldn’t 
need to worry with furs then.” 

The boy pushed his plate away. For all he was not 
yet twelve, gold held a surpassing fascination for his 
alert, trading mind. 

“I’m all for the gold, Mum,” he went on soberly. “An’ 
I’m real glad old Ben’s gone. Ther’s no one around but 
ourselves now, when we find it. Breeds don’t figger in it. 


10 


146 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


When we get it well divide it all up. Kid’ll have most, 
’cos it’s hers, anyway. The one who finds it’ll have next. 
An’ Jane don’t need any. You see, she’s a fool kid, an’ 
would maybe try to eat it. Guess I’m goin’ to find it.” 

The Kid laughed, and exchanged meaning glances with 
the mother across the table. 

“Can you beat him?” she cried, and all the children 
laughed with her. “He’s arranged for the finder to have 
next most to me. Say Perse, Mum had best read you out 
of the Testament. Ther’s a man in it they used to call 
Judas. I guess you ought to know about him. Ther’s 
another feller, but I don’t know about him. He was in 
another book. He was the same sort of feller only not 
so bad. I think they called him Shylock. He’s in one of 
old Ben Needham’s books, so you can’t read about him.” 

“Don’t want to anyway,” retorted the unabashed Perse. 
“Soon as I’m as big as Clarence an’ Red-head I’m goin’ 
out after that gold, an’ I’ll buy you all a swell ranch an’ 
fixings, an’ give you all you want, an’ Mum won’t have 
to work no more. I reckon Clarence an’ Red-head are 
kites. Wish I was big as them.” 

“Kite’s nothin’!” Clarence was without humour, and 
took his small brother seriously. “You’ll do the chores 
same as us when you’re big as us. Ther’ ain’t no gold 
’cept in Usak’s head. Mum said the Euralians got it 
years back. You’d do a heap better gettin’ after pelts 
same as us—only we can’t get ’em. Gold—nothin’!” 

Perse thrust his empty plate towards Mary Justicia 
who took it for replenishment, and he watched while his 
mother wrung the small nose of Jane Constance which 
had got mixed up with her stew. 

“When Pm growed I won’t do a thing I can’t do,” he 
observed graphically. “If ther’ ain’t pelts wot’s the use 
chasin’ ’em? You can’t say ther’ ain’t gold till you chased 


REINDEER FARM 147 

it. I’m goin’ to chase that gold,” he finished up stub¬ 
bornly. 

“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway what any of you are 
going to do in the future,” the Kid said with finality. 
“Just now we’re kind of up against it, and you’ve all got 
to help Mum all you know. Isn’t that so, Mum?” 

Hesther beamed mildly round on the children, not one 
of whom she would have been without for all the world. 

“I guess that’s so,” she said. “We’re all goin’ to do 
our best, sure. That’s what God set us to do. You see, 
kids, the folk who do the best that’s in ’em mostly get 
the best of life. An’ the best of life don’t always mean 
a heap of gold, an’ not even a heap of pelts. It mostly 
means a happy heart, an’ a healthy body. And when you 
die it ain’t no more uncomfortable or worrying than 
goin’ to sleep when you’re tired, same as you do most 
every night when the flies an’ skitters’ll let you. Now 
if you’re all through we’ll clean up. You boys see an’ 
pass Mary Justicia the chattels, an’ fix ’em dry after 
she’s swabbed ’em clean, while I huyk Jane Constance 
from under the stew that’s missed her mouth. I guess 
Gladys Anne needs fixing some that way, too. Perse, 
you get me a bucket o’ water an’ a swab. Maybe I won’t 
need soap—we ain’t got none to spare.” 


CHAPTER IV 

WITHIN THE CIRCLE 

Bill Wilder was squatting on a boulder under cover of 
the stone-built fortifications. His rifle was lying in an 
emplacement overlooking the waterway below. His grey 
eyes were pre-occupied, searching the red, sandy fore¬ 
shore across the river, which rose gently, baldly, sloping 
steadily upwards to the boulder-strewn, serrated skyline 
beyond. 

Chilcoot was seated near by. His rifle lay in another 
emplacement ready for immediate use. He was chewing 
in the thoughtful fashion habitual to him, even under 
the greatest stress. He, too, was searching the far side 
of the river. His gaze was no less intent. It was the 
look of a man whose habit has become that of ceaseless 
watchfulness. 

“I wish I hadn't let him go now.” Wilder spoke with¬ 
out turning. It was almost as though he were thinking 
aloud. “He’s a crazy sort of hot-head who can’t sit 
around when ther’s a scrap to be had.” 

Chilcoot spat through the loophole with great exact¬ 
ness. 

“You don’t need to worry for Mike,” he said, with a 
short laugh that was not intended as an expression of 
mirth. “He’ll get along when he’s through. Ther’ ain’t 
the darn Euralian born that could chew him up. He’s 

148 


WITHIN THE CIRCLE 


149 


spent the worst part of a rotten bad life doin’ his best 
to lose it by every fool play Placer could offer him—an’ 
failed. I guess a wild-cat’s a poor sort of circumstance in 
the matter of lives alongside Mike. I don’t worry a 
thing.” 

“No.” 

The break in their silence closed up at once. Chilcoot 
took a fresh chew and wiped the mosquitoes from the 
back of his neck. Wilder filled his pipe. The smell of 
cooking was in the air. There were others lining the 
fortifications at every point, and one or two men were 
moving about the camp fire behind them. But for all the 
watch at the outer walls the place suggested noonday 
idleness. Even the trail dogs were drowsing in the shade 
of the walls. 

The Arctic sun shone down out of a cloud-flecked sky 
on a scene of barren unloveliness. Long since it had 
burned up such meagre foliage as the floods of spring 
had made possible. The whole country-side was as bald 
as an African sand desert. The blaze of miniature spring 
flowers had been swept away, and the dried grass was as 
brown and wiry as the sparse bristles on the back of 
some hoary hog. Even the lichens which flourished on the 
low, rock formations of which the whole country of 
this northern river was composed, were in little better 
case. Utter sterility lay in every direction. The desola¬ 
tion, the heat, the flies, the mosquitoes, these things made 
for a condition that was well nigh intolerable. 

The camp was set at the far headwaters of Loon Creek. 
It was nominally a gold camp; in reality it had little to 
do with anything but defence. It was a veritable fortress 
built out of the millions of storm-worn boulders that 
littered the region. A wide, encompassing stone corral, 
nearly ten feet high, formed the outer defence, which, in 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


150 

turn, contained a stout, similarly built citadel which 
sheltered quarters for men and dogs, and the stores and 
gear of the outfit. 

Bill Wilder and his men had embarked on their ex¬ 
pedition with no greater concern than had usually been 
the case when the magic of gold had been the sole lure. 
George Raymes had despatched him to these uncharted 
regions with a curiosity deeply stirred, but with the gold 
fever burning fiercely in his veins. And Wilder had 
prepared for every emergency, but always with a smile 
of deprecation for the extent of the war-like stores which 
the police officer insisted were absolutely necessary. Now 
he was more than thankful for the foresight of the man 
who had some twenty-five years of police experience 
behind him. 

He was under no illusion now after a year of this 
deplorable territory. None of the men with him had 
any illusion either. The lure of gold may have been the 
original inspiration with them, but from the moment of 
embarking upon the waters of Loon Creek it had been 
swept from their minds in the fight for their very ex¬ 
istence that was swiftly forced upon them. For all they 
only contemplated the pursuit of a legitimate calling in 
their own Canadian territory they found themselves cut 
off by many hundreds of miles from all help in a country 
peopled by a race of beings who were furiously hostile. 

All through the previous summer the war had been 
waged. It had been a heart-breaking guerilla warfare 
that knew no cessation. The mysterious enemy seemed 
to be waiting for them at every possible point along the 
river, and in each and every case the resulting fight was 
of that comparatively long range character that was 
more irritating than disastrous. 

The Euralians were past masters in the art of challeng- 


WITHIN THE CIRCLE 


151 

ing Wilder’s progress. They never offered a pitched 
battle. They attacked at a distance with rifle and soft- 
nosed bullet, and the pin-pricking of it was like the mad¬ 
dening attacks of the swarming mosquitoes. The whole 
thing was amazingly well-calculated. There was no re¬ 
spite, there was not a moment in which the creek could 
be adequately explored for gold. The expedition was 
forced to defence almost every hour of the unending 
daylight. 

In this fashion, during the first summer, the head¬ 
waters of the creek had been reached. But they had been 
reached with barely time to build winter quarters before 
the freeze up and the long night of winter descended 
upon the world. 

With the closing in of the Arctic night hostilities 
ceased as far as the human enemy was concerned. The 
Euralians fled before the overwhelming forces which 
Nature was about to turn loose. Perhaps they under¬ 
stood the terror which the intruders would be forced to 
endure on these barren lands where shelter was unknown. 
Perhaps they considered it sufficient. Perhaps they feared 
for themselves the ferocity of the Arctic night. Doubt¬ 
less they were simply satisfied that their prey was held 
fast, a helpless prisoner within the walls of the strong¬ 
hold he had set up in defence, and was powerless to 
operate in any of the desired directions. At any rate 
Wilder was left unmolested in the grip of the northern 
man’s natural enemy. 

It had been a desperate time in which the intensity of 
cold was the least of many hardships. Fuel had been 
scarce enough, but sufficient driftwood and masses of 
dried lichen had been collected to make life possible. So 
the expedition had endured through alternating periods 
of snow-storm and blizzard, when the blackness of the 


152 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


northern night could well-nigh be felt. Then had come 
those brilliant intervals of starlight when the twilight 
grew under the splendour of a blazing aurora, and the 
temperature dropped, dropped till the depths of cold 
seemed illimitable. 

It was in these extremities that the whiteman displayed 
his right to his position in the scheme of life. An iron 
discipline ruled the camp, and never for a moment was 
it relaxed. Never was the mind permitted to drift from 
the appointed labours. Storm or calm it was the same. 
For Bill Wilder, and Chilcoot, and even the hot-head, 
Red Mike knew that it was work, or the complete 
disintegration of the will to endure, which, in turn, would 
mean disruption and final disaster to the whole of their 
outfit. 

So desperate was the interminable winter that every 
man of the outfit welcomed the deluge of spring with its 
promptly swarming flies and mosquitoes, and the re¬ 
opening of hostilities with their almost unseen human 
enemy. Within a month summer was upon them, and 
the previous summer’s battle was again in full swing. 
So it had gone on. And now at last the wear and futility 
of it all was beginning to have its effect. The expedition 
had endured for a year under conditions almost un¬ 
endurable. And during the whole of that period not one 
single detail of its original purpose had been achieved. 

Gold? It was the last thing in their thoughts now. 
And as for the Euralians, with whom they had been in 
fighting contact for at least half the time, their identity, 
their personality was the same sealed book to Wilder 
that it had been before he had listened to their story from 
the lips of George Raymes. They had never yet made 
one single prisoner, or possessed themselves of the slain 
body of a single victim of their rifles. No member of the 


WITHIN THE CIRCLE 


153 


outfit had as yet more than a rifle shot view of these 
savages, who so skilfully avoided contact while yet 
prosecuting their warfare. 

Chilcoot regarded his leader and friend with eyes that 
twinkled for all they were serious. 

“No. Not for him,” he said provocatively. 

Wilder lit his pipe. Then he reached out and opened 
the breech of his rifle to let the air pass through the fouled 
barrel. 

“Guess that’s a qualification,” he said regarding the 
weapon in his hand. 

“Sure,” Chilcoot again laughed shortly. “Ther’s 
bigger things to worry for than Red Mike—crazy as he 
is.” 

Wilder nodded. He laid his rifle back in its place with 
the breech closed, and a fresh clip of cartridges in its 
magazine. 

“The boys are worrying, an’ it ain’t good. Buck 
Maberley told me a bunch of stuff,” the other went on. 
“But it ain’t the trouble they’re liable to make. We ken 
fix that sort o’ junk easy—up here. No. They’ve a 
reas’nable grouch though. For once their fool brains 
are leaking something better than Placer hooch. I guess 
they’re askin’ each other the questions you an’ me have 
been askin’ ourselves without makin’ a shout of it. And 
they’re mostly finding the same asnwer we get. They’re 
guessing if we lie around here about another month, 
makin’ target practice for them crazy foreign Injuns we 
look like takin’ a big chance of never hitting up against 
Placer hooch ever again. Which is only another way o’ 
sayin’ winter’ll fall on us before we can get back on to the 
Hekor, an’ if we’ve the grub we ain’t got the guts to see 
it through. You see, it would be kind o’ different if we’d 
the colour of gold to sort of cheer us up. But what spare 


154 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


time those blamed Injuns leave the boys they spend in 
panning river dirt for the stuff it never heard about since 
ever the world began. An’ they’re sick to death matin’ 
fools of their better judgment. Curse the skitters.” 

Again Chilcoot brushed his hand across his blistered 
neck and wiped its palm on his moleskin trouser leg. 

Wilder nodded as he, too, strove to rid himself of the 
insect attacks. 

“We’ll have to beat it,” he said with a sigh of regret, 
but with decision. “I hate quitting,” he went on a little 
gloomily. “I wouldn’t say you’re right, boy, ther’s no 
♦ gold on this river. But we can’t get after it right. If the 
stuff right down here on the river in front of us ain’t 
pay dirt I’m all sorts of a sucker. But it don’t matter. 
These cursed Euralians have got us dead set so we can’t 
shake a pan right. We’re beat. Plumb beat. They got 
us worried and guessing, which in a territory like this, 
means—finished. Man, I’m sick to death of the bald 
hummocks and the flies. Another winter up here would 
get me yeppin’ around like a crazy coyote.” 

Chilcoot had turned back to his watch on the river. 

“Yep,” he agreed, relieved at his chief’s swift decision. 
“When’ll we pull out?” 

“Right after Red Mike gets back.” 

The men continued their vigil in silence for awhile. 
The contemplation of retreat, the acknowledgment of 
defeat were things that affected them deeply. Both were 
of a keen fighting disposition. But their inclinations were 
coldly tempered by the experience and wisdom which in 
earlier days must have been impossible. 

“You know, boy,” Wilder went on presently, in the 
contemplative fashion of a mind groping, “these Indians 
have got me guessing harder than I’ve ever guessed in 
my life. It’s up to us handing a report to old Raymes 


WITHIN THE CIRCLE 


155 


when we get along down. Well, I guess if I was to pass 
him haf the stuff jangling around in my head, I’d be 
liable to get a laugh from our superior that ud make me 
want to commit murder. These darn neches are fighting 
like Prussian Junkers. They’re armed like Bolsheviks. 
And they’re using the soft-nosed slugs you’d reckon to 
find in the hands of modern Communists. Here they 
are thousands of miles beyond the reach of the folk who 
could hand ’em that stuff. Yet they’ve got it plenty, and 
know every darn move in the game played by European 
armies. Say, it wouldn’t stagger me to find our fort 
doused with poison gas.” 

Chilcoot spat with unnecessary vigour. 

“You’re guessin’ ther’s something white behind ’em?” 
he said sharply. 

“White?” Wilder laughed. Pie shook his head. 
“Maybe though,” he said, “the thing that would best 
please me just now would be for that darnation Irishman 
to bring us in a prisoner. Say, has it hit you we’ve 
never got a close sight of these folks. Have you dis¬ 
covered that looking at results it looks like we’ve never 
killed one blamed rascal of ’em, and yet we reckon to 
carry with us some of the best artists with a rifle this 
darned country possesses. We’ve had hundreds of brown¬ 
faced targets for ’em, too. What does it mean? Why 
just this. Dead or alive these neches don’t mean us to 
get a close view of their men. They’re afraid for a 
whiteman to—recognise them. Well?” He laughed 
again. “Say, ther’s a big play behind this thing, and 
we haven’t begun to discover it. I’m not through with 
it. But I’m going to beat it down to the Hekor right 
away, and get a look into it from another angle. Raymes 
was right. It looks to me as if the feller who solves the 
riddle of these—Euralians—is doing something mighty 


156 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


good for a whiteman’s country. The gold’s quit worry¬ 
ing me a little bit. Say—” 

He broke off and gazed musingly over the glittering 
waters of the river, which was visible for miles away to 
the north in the flat, barren country through which it 
meandered. 

Chilcoot waited. His friend’s unusual burst of con¬ 
fidence was not a thing he desired to interrupt. Besides 
he had voiced much of the thing that had disturbed his 
less sensitive mind. So he went on chewing with his eyes 
glued to the opposite shore. 

“You know, boy, we’d have done well to have kept 
touch with that dandy Kid we found at the mouth of the 
Caribou,” Wilder continued. “I’ve the notion that bright 
girl was wiser to the things up this way than that factor 
feller. An’ certainly wiser than George Raymes. She 
said she was born an’ raised on the river. I wonder. I 
guess I’ve been wondering ever since. You know there’s 
more to this play of ours than gold, an’ Euralians an’ 
things. There’s a ‘girl child—white.’ You remember?” 

Chilcoot’s eyes were grinning into the other’s face as 
Wilder broke off. He nodded. 

“Sure I do. She’s surely a dandy Kid,” he said. 

His grin passed, and seriousness replaced it. 

“But she’d got six brothers an’ sisters an’ a mother, an’ 
I don’t remember that Raymes said a word about them. 
You were feelin’ particular not to ast questions of her. 
Well, I guess it was a pity. Ben Needham never passed 
us a hint of her, either. Say, this is the queerest darn 
country. It hides up a whole heap of queer things. 
Guess it’s that gets hold of us mutts who waste precious 
years trying to beat it. We can locate that Kid passing 
down river, though. An’ maybe you’ll feel less a’mighty 
delicate astin’ questions.” 


WITHIN THE CIRCLE 


157 


“Yes. I fixed to do that.” 

“I guessed so. I—Say, ther’s Mike beating it for 
home.” 

Chilcoot stood up as he spoke and leant over the hot 
stone parapet. He was searching the canoe which had 
suddenly appeared driving down the sluggish stream from 
the north. 

Wilder, too, had risen to his feet. He was looking for 
the desired prisoner in the boat. He counted the oc¬ 
cupants. There were four. Only four. And that was 
the number the Irishman had set out with. No. There 
was no prisoner. The men in the boat were all whitemen. 
There could be no doubt about it. Nor was there any 
sign of a wounded man lying in the bottom of the little 
craft. 

“The same old story,” Wilder grumbled. 

“Meaning?” 

“They’re coming back empty—Gee!” 

A shot rang out. It was followed by another and 
another. The men at the fort saw the water splash about 
the canoe where the bullets took effect. But the boat 
came on through the sudden hail, and the men at the 
paddles remained unscathed. 

“That’s Indian shooting,” Chilcoot exclaimed con¬ 
temptuously. Then in a tone of deep regret. “If those 
guys would only give our boys such a target.” 

“That’s so.” Bill stood with his rifle ready, waiting 
for a sign of the lurking enemy. “That boat would never 
make the bank if it was full of Euralians. It makes you 
think they aren’t yearning to kill. Only to worry. Come 
on. Let’s go down and get Mike’s news.” 

Wilder’s outfit was lying moored and camped at the 
mouth of Loon Creek where its waters debouched on the 


158 THE LUCK OF THE KID 

broad course of the Hekor. The barrens were left far 
behind, and these men had come again to a country where 
shade from the blistering sunlight was to be found in 
occasional bluffs of forest, and where there was complete 
rest from the curiously unnerving warfare they had so 
long endured. 

The camp was pitched on a great spit of land sup¬ 
porting a dwarfed, windswept bluff of forest trees. The 
shade from the burning sun was more than welcome for 
all the haunting mosquitoes made it their camping ground 
too. Great smudge fires of dank vegetation and lichen 
had been lit, and, for the moment, even insect hostilities 
had ceased. The canoes had been safely stowed for the 
night, and the men sat around in the drifting smoke 
after their supper, while the trail dogs prowled in search 
of any refuse which the meal of their human masters 
provided. 

For all it was night, and rest and sleep lay ahead, the 
sun had only changed its position in the sky and daylight 
was unabated. It might have been high noon from the 
unshadowed brilliance of the world about them. As 
Red Mike had once said in his graphic complaining: “God 
A’mighty created the summer sun, but the Divil set it 
afire to burn everlastin’ north of 60 degrees.” 

The three leaders were squatting on their outspread 
blankets in the shade cast by a small clump of storm- 
driven spruce. They were luxuriating in the smoke of 
three smudge fires set triangularly about them. Each 
was clad as lightly as circumstances would permit. Cot¬ 
ton shirts and hard moleskin trousers belted about their 
waists was all and more than sufficient. Their arms and 
chests were bare. Each man was smoking a reeking pipe, 
and a curiously fascinating, somnolent atmosphere pre¬ 
vailed over the camp. It was the quiet of physical repose 


WITHIN THE CIRCLE 


159 

after heavy labour, intensified by the Nature sounds 
which are never absent in the northern wilderness. 

Red Mike chuckled in his irrepressible fashion, and 
Wilder and Chilcoot turned their reflective eyes in¬ 
quiringly on his grinning countenance. 

“Say, it’s a night—if you can call it night with hell's 
own sun burning blisters on the water—for re jokin',” 
he said. “Is it a drop o’ the stuff you’re goin’ to open, 
Bill Wilder? Or has the water wagon got you still tied 
to its tail? Man, I could drink the worst home-brew 
ever came out of a prohibition State.” 

Wilder hunched himself up with his hands locked about 
his knees, and a faint smile of derision lit his steady eyes. 

“Rejoicing?” he said. “I don't get you, Mike.” 

The Irishman’s blue eyes widened good-humouredly. 

“Ther's folks never made to rec’nize the time for 
rejoicin', 'less it's set for 'em by politician-made law. It 
seems to me I remember the time when Bill Wilder didn’t 
need the other feller to learn him that way. Say, we come 
down that mud-bottomed creek nigh two-hundred an’ fifty 
mile without a shot fired. From the moment we broke 
that crazy camp we set up to hold our place on the map 
of this fool country them Euralians quit us cold. Guess 
they said, ‘The gophers are on the run, let ’em beat it. 
They're quittin', an’ we ain’t got time worritin’ with 
quitters.’ So they handed us an elegant sort o’ Sunday 
School picnic passin’ down stream, makin’ twenty-five 
a day without puttin’ the weight of a fly on the paddles. 
Well? Ain’t it time fer rejoicin’? Here we are right 
back in a territory that looks almost good to me after 
those blazin’ barrens we left behind. We’re right back 
with whole skins by courtesy of a bunch of dirty neches.” 
He laughed again. “It’s sure time to—celebrate.” 

It was Chilcoot who replied to him. And his retort 


160 THE LUCK OF THE KID 

came in the sharp tones of a man unable to appreciate 
the raillery of the Irishman. 

“We ain’t quittin’ them neches,” he said, his deep-set 
eyes snapping. “Guess our work’s only started. But 
you’re right. It’s time to rejoice when we quit, which 
won’t be this side of winter. If you’d hoss sense you’d 
know we're out-fitted for—three years. Guess Bill here 
ain’t openin’ any old corks till we’re through.’’ 

Mike sobered on the instant. He turned to Wilder. 

“What comes next, boss?” he asked shortly. 

Wilder nodded his head towards the great hills in the 
west. 

“The Hekor, Mike,” he said seriously. “Ther’s no 
home run yet. There’s nearly four months to the freeze 
up, an’ we pull out of here, west, after we’ve slept. We’re 
making west to the headwaters, an’ to get a look at the 
hill country. Ther’s gold around somewhere, and there 
are those neches—as you choose to call ’em. We aren’t 
‘quitting’ till we know more about both.” 

• ••••• o 

It was a scene which years before other eyes had gazed 
upon. It was the canyon of the Grand Falls where the 
Hekor fell off the highlands of the Alaskan hills. Wilder 
and his men were ashore at the only landing available, 
and again it was a landing which had been used by 
another years before. 

The gold man and his fellows were fascinated by the 
tremendous grandeur of the canyon, with the dull roar of 
great waters coming back to them out of the dense clouds 
of spray which enveloped the far distance of the straight 
hewn rift down which the surge of dark waters rushed. 

“We can’t make that stuff,” Chilcoot demurred, his 
eyes on the turbulent race of water which the canyon 
disgorged. 


WITHIN THE CIRCLE 


161 


“We aren’t going to attempt it.” Wildei shrugged. 

He turned to Mike who stood gazing out into the far 
distance absorbed by the magnificence which so deeply 
appealed to his Gallic imagination. 

“We got to see the thing lying back of those Falls,” 
he said pointing. “Will you make it, Mike? Will you 
make it with Chilcoot and me? We can leave camp to 
Buck Maberley. He can handle the boys good, and you 
can put it up to him. I guess it means a portage up there. 
Then—Well, who knows? Maybe we’ll be back here in 
two weeks. Maybe two months. I’ve got a notion, and 
I’ve got to put it through. That territory out there is 
Alaskan, and I want to get a look. Are you falling for 
it? I want the answer right now. I’m guessing all the 
time. I don’t know a thing. But I’ve got to get a look 
back of those Falls. Well?” 

Mike’s gaze remained on the distance. The fascina¬ 
tion of it refused to release him. He replied without 
turning. 

“Sure boss,” he said simply. Then he added whimsi¬ 
cally “I’ll fall for water—like that.” 

And Chilcoot laughed. Even he found the frank 
admission of the red-headed creature’s weakness 
irresistible. 


CHAPTER V 

THE HOUSE IN THE VALLEY OF THE FIRE HILLS 

Squat, broad, watchful Chilcoot Massy was standing on 
a crazy, log-built landing which the years had rotted and 
iclad with dank mosses and leathery fungus. His deep- 
set eyes were full of wondering curiosity. For the mo¬ 
ment his work was standing guard over the canoe which 
was moored to the landing, and which was the only means 
by which he and his companions could hope to return in 
safety to Buck Maberley and the rest of the outfit en¬ 
camped three weeks’ journey away below the Falls of the 
Hekor River. 

Bill Wilder and Red Mike had been away a full hour 
or more. They had gone to search the woods which came 
down almost to the water’s edge. They had gone to re¬ 
connoitre the crowning discovery which the search be¬ 
hind the Falls had yielded them. 

Chilcoot had spent his time usefully. With his friends’ 
going he had turned his attention first to the human signs 
about him. They had not been many, but they had been 
such as he could read out of his wide experience. The 
rusted mooring rings on the landing told of comparatively 
recent use. The moss and fungus had been trodden by 
other feet than his own and those of his companions. 
Then, on the bank, there were the ashes of camp fires, 
and a certain amount of litter which camping never fails 

162 


THE HOUSE IN THE VALLEY 


163 

to leave behind it. There was no doubt in his mind. For 
all the landing was more or less derelict, it was still a place 
of call for those who used this hidden waterway. 

Chilcoot regretted not one moment of the labours of 
the past three weeks. The portage up the canyon of the 
Falls of the Hekor River had been gruelling. But com¬ 
pensation had awaited them. The grandeur of the scene, 
the immensity of the Falls had been something over¬ 
whelming. He had seen nothing comparable with either. 
Then had come the journey up the wide river above them, 
and ultimately the lake supported high up in a cup formed 
by the snow-clad hills. He had felt, if no other purpose 
had been achieved, the wonders of this rugged hill coun¬ 
try were amply worth while. But the ultimate discovery 
of the hidden channel, debouching into the lake through 
a narrow, twisted canyon cut through the walls of the 
surrounding hills, which had brought them to the strange, 
super-heated, mysterious Valley of the Fire Hills, had 
changed his entire estimate of the reckless journey upon 
which Wilder had embarked. Out of his long experi¬ 
ence of the northern world he realised that here was a 
discovery of real importance. 

First it had been the curious black sand bed, over which 
the sluggish, oily waters of the creek flowed, that had 
caught and riveted his attention. Then had come the 
black slopes of the three smoking hills. But, at last, when 
they reached the human construction of the lumber-built 
landing, and glimpsed the lofty watch tower, erected 
within the heart of the woods just inland of it, he realised 
something of the real meaning of the thing they had 
chanced upon. There was nothing of Indian or Eskimo 
about the landing. No watch tower such as they had 
sighted above the tree-tops owed its origin to savage ideas 
of defence or construction. No. Here was habitation 


164 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


deeply hidden with more than native cunning. Here was 
something which pointed, in conjunction with the curious 
features of the creek, to whiteman enterprise of some 
serious commercial value. So, in an atmosphere of suffo¬ 
cating humidity, he was waiting, keeping guard upon the 
canoe, lest, as in the past, they were to find themselves 
again in hostile territory. 

Having explored the signs about him he remained gaz¬ 
ing down upon the black sand bordering the sluggish 
waters, and thought and speculation ran on while he 
searched as far as he could see up and down the creek. 
Was he dreaming? Was it all fancy? Would he waken 
presently to the rock-littered country of the “barrens” 
on Loon Creek ? 

No. He gazed out at the distant smoke cloud over¬ 
hanging the valley, and shook his head in answer to his 
unvoiced questions. No. There was no fancy to any of 
it. It was real. Amazingly real. The valley was no 
magic, but a substantial reality of Nature. 

Memory was stirring. Other scenes and other times 
had come back to him. He remembered his early days on 
the McKenzie. He remembered the tar-sands which were 
common enough along its almost illimitable course. He 
remembered the queer of it. How the precious liquid tar 
oozed up through the sand and settled into great pools. 
He remembered the curious jets of gas which spouted 
through the sand, and how they used to set fire to them, 
and cook by the flame, and heat the tar with which they 
smeared the bottoms of their light kyaks. He remem¬ 
bered how the Indians and Breeds did the same thing, and 
had done so throughout the centuries. The thing which 
chance had now found for them was something of the 
same. Here was a valley whose heart was flooded with 
coal tar and oil. Oil? To judge by the signs all down 


THE HOUSE IN THE VALLEY 165 

the length of the valley they had so far traversed, there 
should be supplies of oil sufficient for the world’s needs 
for years. The secret of the habitation which his com¬ 
rades had gone to reconnoitre was no longer a secret in 
his estimation. Somewhere along this creek must be 
commercial workings of the precious material with which 
he judged the region to be flooded. Who? Who? His 
mind groped along every channel for an explanation. 
Whiteman? Perhaps. Euralian? Lie left his final ques¬ 
tion without an answer. 


“ ’Str 

Mike laid a detaining hand on the arm of Wilder. 
They were moving cautiously through the woods skirt¬ 
ing the clearing in which the great, sprawling, log-built 
house stood. 

“What is it?” 

Wilder had halted in response to the Irishman’s ges¬ 
ture, and whispered back his inquiry with some impa¬ 
tience. 

“Someone behind us.” The eyes of the other were 
searching amongst the trees and undergrowth through 
which they had just passed. “Guess the bush broke twice. 
It’s no sort of fancy. Ther’s someone-” 

He broke off listening, and Wilder distinctly recognised 
the faint snapping of brushwood somewhere away in rear 
of them. 

They waited. But as no further sound was forthcom¬ 
ing Wilder shrugged his shoulders and nodded in the di¬ 
rection of the clearing. 

“Guess we can’t worry with that,” he said, his eyes 
regarding the pile of buildings upon which the sunlight 
was pouring. “There’s not a soul around that house any- 



THE LUCK OF THE KID 


166 

way, so far as I can see. Guess there isn’t even a cur 
dog. We best quit this wood, and make a break for it. 
We got to know who lives there. And it don’t much 
matter how they take our visit. You got your guns fixed 
right?” 

The Irishman chuckled in his light-hearted fashion. 
The invasion of the house appealed to his reckless spirit. 
His fighting temper made him hope, and his hope found 
swift expression. 

“I’ll be sick to death if it’s white folk,” he said. “I’m 
yearning to hit up against some of the Euralian gang. 
Come right on, boss. I’m your man if you’re goin’ to 
break in on ’em. My guns are sure fixed.” 


Their guns were utterly unneeded. As Wilder had 
surmised the place was completely deserted. Their in¬ 
trusion had passed unchallenged by any living thing from 
the moment of entering the clearing. Now at last, having 
passed through a seemingly endless series of rooms and 
passages, they found themselves standing in a great cen¬ 
tral hall, beautiful in its simple display of rich oriental 
decorations. 

The Irishman’s blue eyes were grinning as they sur¬ 
veyed the deserted splendour with which he w T as sur¬ 
rounded. He was incapable of appreciating the full 
significance of that upon which he gazed. He had been 
robbed of a forcible encounter, but he found some sort 
of compensation in the astounding thing they had dis¬ 
covered. 

“Gee!” he cried. “Makes you feel you’ve quit the 
dam old north country, an’ hit up against some buzzy- 
headed Turk’s harem. Say, get a peek at them di-vans. 


THE HOUSE IN THE VALLEY 167 

An 9 them curtain things. An’ them junk china pots. 
Holy—!” 

He broke off and his grinning eyes sobered. A thought 
had flashed through his impulsive brain and held him 
silent. 

Wilder was regarding him. All that Mike had only 
just sensed he had realised from the moment they had 
set foot in the house. The place was a miniature palace, 
something decaying, but the whole interior told of Eastern 
tastes, Eastern habits, Eastern life. The place had been 
furnished for oriental occupation. And realising this 
the name of one race alone had flashed into his mind. 
Japanese! 

A surge of excitement stirred. He gazed about the 
great hall, with its silken hangings, heavily encumbered 
with the dust of years, with its low silken couches. Then 
the carved wooden screen, and the central fireplace elabor¬ 
ately built under its smoke funnel. He glanced at the 
bureau bookcase of modern fashioning, and with every 
detail added conviction came to him. 

But desertion, or at least neglect, was stamped every¬ 
where. There was dust on everything. There was a 
curious musty smell which could not be mistaken. But, 
somehow, for all that, there were signs, unmistakable 
signs that desertion was not absolute. There had been 
remains of food in the pantries. There were ashes in 
the cookstoves in the kitchen. There was water in vari¬ 
ous pitchers and buckets. No. Utter neglect, but not 
complete desertion. This was Wilder’s final verdict, 
gaining corroboration as he remembered the sounds of 
breaking bush which Red Mike’s ears had been so swift 
to detect. 

“We best make the sleeping quarters, Mike,” Wilder 
said after awhile. “They’re liable to tell us the last thing 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


168 

we need to know.” And he passed round the room in 
search of an outlet which might lead to the apartments 
above. 

o • • • • • • 

Wilder flung the curtains quickly aside. It was an 
arched entrance to one of the upper rooms. He stepped 
within the room closely followed by Mike, and they stood 
silently regarding the interior with appraising eyes. 

Here again there was no occupant. It was a bedroom, 
and, judging by its proportions, the principal bedroom. 
As it had been in the hall below the furnishings were 
largely of Eastern fashion. But a modern, Western bed¬ 
stead occupied the central place, and a bureau dressing- 
chest stood near to a window. For the rest there were 
silken curtains of lavish wistaria and chrysanthemum 
design hanging at the windows, and the floor of yellow 
pine was covered with Eastern, tufted rugs. 

But the furnishings and decorations of this far hidden 
home no longer pre-occupied Wilder. He had discovered 
the thing he wanted in the modern bed and the faint, 
rather noxious odour which human occupation leaves be¬ 
hind it for senses sufficiently acute. The bed was un¬ 
made. It was in the condition left by a person who has 
just arisen from it. But he also realised that not one but 
two persons had been its last occupants. This in itself 
was illuminating, but not nearly so enlightening as the 
prevailing odour of the room. That curious human 
odour had been instantly recognised. And Wilder knew 
it had no relation to beings of his own race. Again the 
name of the sons of Nippon flashed through his mind, 
and a deep satisfaction warmed him as he remembered 
that after all it looked as though he would not have to 
return entirely empty-handed to his friend, George 
Raymes. 


THE HOUSE IN THE VALLEY 169 

He turned sharply to his companion who had lost in¬ 
terest under his chief’s silence. 

“Guess I’ve seen all I need,” he said, while his eyes con¬ 
tinued to regard the bedstead. “We’ll get right back to 
the landing.” He thrust back his cap from his broad 
forehead and turned towards the window which looked 
out to the south. “Yes, we’ll get right back. This darn 
place is not deserted. There are folks around. That 
being so there’s just one thing worrying. It’s the safety 
of our canoe, and our outfit. So we’ll get along, and you 
and Chilcoot will have to share guard on the outfit be¬ 
tween you.” 

Mike’s blue eyes lit. The thing his chief suggested 
restored hope to his fighting spirit. 

“If ther’s folk around—an’ I guess you’re right—we’re 

liable to- Say, what’s your play, boss, with us two 

standin’ by the outfit?” 

Wilder’s gaze came back from the window. He had 
only looked out upon what seemed to be unbroken forest. 
He shrugged. And a half smile lit his eyes. 

“Why, I’m goin’ to eat first,” he said. “After that— 
why, after that I’m goin’ to take up a considerable tem¬ 
porary abode in this shanty.” 

“Alone?” 

A look of concern had gathered in the Irishman’s ex¬ 
pressive eyes. 

“Sure.” 

“But—Say—” 

“Here. Listen, Mike,” Wilder exclaimed a little impa¬ 
tiently. “That goes. You understand. I’m going to 
sleep one night at least under this roof. And I’ve got to 
do it alone. Ther’s folks belonging to this place, and 
they’re around. If I’ve the sense of a blind mule I reckon 
they’ll sure come back to their camp. Well, that’s what I 




170 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


want. And I want ’em to find me Here first. Come on. 
Let’s go an’ eat, an’ see how Chilcoot’s making out.” 

• • • • • • • 

The quiet of the place was intense. Not a sound of 
any sort penetrated the thick log walls of the house in the 
clearing. The brilliant, interminable daylight went on, 
for all the hour belonged to night. No ripple of air served 
to temper the humid heat of the valley outside. And 
within the house the feeling of suffocation was well-nigh 
intolerable. 

Bill Wilder had flung himself into the upholstered chair 
which stood before the bureau bookcase which stood in 
the central apartment. It was midnight, and he was 
completely weary of his solitary wanderings through the 
deserted house. He had searched in every direction, in 
every outhouse, and every nook and corner of the great 
building. For something like four hours he had con¬ 
tinued his work from the summit of the look-out tower to 
the empty, filthy dog corrals on the fringe of the clear¬ 
ing. And all his labours had yielded him nothing be¬ 
yond that which the place had told him in the first few 
minutes of his earlier visit with Red Mike. He was dis¬ 
appointed. He was tired. But somehow he felt that, for 
all the negative result he had obtained so far, there was 
something still to come. Something which would ulti¬ 
mately reward his persistence. 

He felt his early inspiration was not for nothing. He 
knew it was not. A subtle conviction pursued him, had 
pursued him every minute of his lonely search. He could 
not have explained his reasons for the belief that obsessed 
him. There were no tangible grounds for it, but he knew, 
he felt that from the moment he had set foot within the 
strange house there had been eyes following his every 


THE HOUSE IN THE VALLEY 


171 

movement, there was someone, who, all unseen, had 
never for a single moment permitted him to pursue his in¬ 
vestigations unobserved. 

He was by no means imaginative in the ordinary way. 
His nerves were like highly tempered steel. He had no 
fear of any sort either physical or superstitious. He had 
no thought of any ghostly presence. But he knew in¬ 
stinctively that someone belonging to that place was mov¬ 
ing through it with him, but along ways, and possibly 
hidden passages, which he had been unable to discover. 

His automatic pistol was fully loaded, and, from the 
first moment of his vigil, he had been reasonably prepared 
for any eventuality, but he knew, his hard common sense 
told him, that if his belief was justified there was not one 
single instant as he plodded his way through apartment 
after apartment, or even while sitting in the chair at the 
desk with his back turned on the rest of the great hall, 
that he was not at the complete mercy of those who were 
observing his movements. 

Now he prepared for the last act of his search. That 
completed he would carry out the rest of his simple pro¬ 
gramme. Yes, he must search the desk, and the book 
shelves above it. Then he would betake himself to the 
great bedroom upstairs and occupy the bed which he knew 
had recently been occupied by others. A grim smile 
hovered for a moment in his steady eyes as he thought 
of the outrage this taking of the bed of another consti¬ 
tuted in his understanding of the decencies of life. May¬ 
be it would— He dismissed the thought from his mind, 
and, reaching out, lowered the flap front of the desk. 

But he did not commence the search of the array of 
drawers and pigeon-holes laden with documents with 
which the interior was furnished. Instead, he sat back in 
the capacious chair regarding the rich inlay of mother- 


172 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


of-pearl, and the exquisite carving which was revealed. 
The beauty of the workmanship of the desk made only 
a passing impression. It was not admiration that left 
him idly contemplating the thing before him. It was 
something else. Something all unexpected and uncal¬ 
culated. Quite suddenly a wave of reluctance, that was 
closely akin to sheer repugnance, had taken hold of him, 
and denied him the completion of the work he had set his 
hand to. For the life of him he could not pry into the 
private papers of his unknown host. Japanese, or any 
other, it made no difference. That sort of thing was 
sheer police work, and, for all he had been sworn a special 
constable for the occasion by his friend, George Raymes, 
the police spirit had not yet fully taken possession of his 
civilian feelings. No. He shut the desk up with some¬ 
thing of the rough force which his self-disgust inspired. 
He shot back the supporting arms into their sockets, and 
turned his chair about in a manner which displayed his 
irrevocable decision. 

So he sat back, and drew his pipe from his pocket and 
filled it contemplatively. His eyes were half smiling, and 
his expression was wholly ironical for what he regarded 
as his own contemptible weakness. 

He lit his pipe and gazed about him over the apart¬ 
ment. It was well past midnight now, and the broad light 
of day lit the place with a soft evenness that was some¬ 
thing monotonous. And, smoking, he permitted his 
thoughts to pursue the trend which his position inspired. 

Strangely enough they left him without a shadow of 
concern for himself, and only sought to unravel the mys¬ 
tery with which he knew he was surrounded. 

He was in the heart of the hills whence the Euralians 
were reputed to hail from. He had discovered a minia¬ 
ture palace, not a rough shanty, and it was furnished with 


THE HOUSE IN THE VALLEY 


173 


the taste, and for the abode of someone of unquestion¬ 
ably Japanese origin. A certainty existed in his mind 
that the owner of it all was somewhere present in the 
house and in hiding. Why ? The territory was Alaskan. 
It had nothing to do with Canada, where he had come 
from. Why, then, should the owner fear to show him¬ 
self? What object could he have in remaining hidden? 
He found several possible answers, but none seemed to 
furnish an adequate solution. The whole thing was an 
enigma that completely defeated him. But he meant to 
solve it even if he was forced to remain a month in the 
place. The only certainty he felt, and that for the reason 
of his belief that the owner was watching him possibly 
at that very moment, was that his invisible host possessed 
none of the hostility which the Euralians on Loon Creek 
had displayed. Had it been otherwise, surely, long since, 
he would have discovered it in a definite attack whilst 
engaged on his work of unjustifiable intrusion and search. 

However, it was all useless speculation. There was 
nothing further to be gained by it. Possibly the bureau 
behind him might have told him something. But there it 
was. A man’s private papers were sacred. And he could 
not outrage such sense of honour as the traffic of gold 
had left to him. No. He would go to the bed he had 
selected and—see what happened. 

He stood up and knocked out his pipe on the stone-built 
fireplace and moved quickly, but without attempting to 
conceal his movements, from the room. 


CHAPTER VI 


THE EYES IN THE NIGHT 

A belated sense of humour was stirring in Bill Wilder 
as he passed on to the quarters he had selected for his oc¬ 
cupation. The room, he felt certain, was that usually 
occupied by his invisible hosts. Convinced of their secret 
surveillance of his movements he believed they would 
surely witness his audacious usurpation of their private 
apartment. It was the thought of this that brought the 
smile to his eyes. He was wondering what form their 
very natural resentment would take, for he had no doubt 
whatever as to what would happen with the position re¬ 
versed. Anyway, he felt he was playing a trump card 
for bringing them into the open, and that, at present, was 
the thing he most desired. He would chance the rest. 
Meanwhile further speculation was useless, and he 
shrugged his broad shoulders, and his smile vanished 
under his resolve. He was determined on a prolonged 
vigil. He would pretend sleep and—await developments. 

That was his purpose. But he failed to reckon with 
Nature and a vigorous, healthy body. And, furthermore, 
he had forgotten the oppressive humidity which weighed 
heavily upon the faculties. He had also forgotten that 
he had been bodily occupied for something like eighteen 
hours of the endless daylight. So it came that within five 
minutes of flinging himself fully dressed upon the 
dishevelled bed he fell into a deep slumber of the com¬ 
pletely weary. 


174 


THE EYES IN THE NIGHT 


175 


How long he slept he never knew. He was dreaming 
chaotically. He seemed to be deeply concerned with a 
hideously misshapen mountain from the sight of which 
it was impossible to escape. It was lofty, and heavily 
snowclad, and its fantastic shape continually changed, as¬ 
suming absurd likenesses to still more stupid things. 
First it looked like his block of offices in Placer. Then it 
resembled the Irishman Mike, with flaming top instead of 
red hair. Then, again, it somehow flattened out to a 
burlesque of the barren surroundings of Loon Creek, 
only to leap again into the shape of a golden domed 
palace with a watch tower reaching far up into the clouds. 
The last kaleidoscopic variation it assumed was the huge 
head of a dark-faced man, crowned with snow-white hair 
that streamed down over shoulders completely hidden 
under its dense cloak, and with a pair of eyes flaming 
with a fire that became agony to gaze upon. It was the 
lurid horror of those eyes that finally startled him into 
actual wakefulness. And he found himself sitting on 
the side of his bed staring at something that sufficiently 
resembled the nightmare horror of his dream to leave 
him in doubt of its reality. 

He passed a sweating palm across his forehead. It 
was a gesture of uncertainty. Then, in a moment, full 
realisation came, and he leapt to his feet and his challenge 
rang out vital and determined. 

“Not a move!” he cried. “Move and you're dead as 
mutton! You’re covered! An’, sure as God, I’ll drop 
you at the first sign!” 

He moved a step forward. His body was half crouch¬ 
ing, and his fully loaded automatic pistol was leading 
threateningly. 

There was no movement in response to his threat and 
he remained just where his first step had carried him, 


176 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


while horrified curiosity, as he gazed on the spectacle 
framed between the silken curtains of the arched entrance 
to the room, replaced his urgency of a moment before. 

It was a man and a woman. And they were standing 
side by side. They were both something diminutive. 
Particularly was this the case in the woman. The man 
was sturdily built, with lank, snow-white hair that reached 
from the crown of his head, and hung down upon his 
broad shoulders. A long, snowy beard covered his chest 
with such luxuriance that it almost seemed part of the 
mane that flowed down to his shoulders. But all this, 
striking as it was to the just awakened man, was quickly 
lost sight of in the painful vision of a pair of eyeless 
sockets that gaped at him, filled and surrounded with 
vivid inflammation. 

The man was in rough clothing not dissimilar from 
that which Wilder himself was wearing. His sturdy 
body was coatless and clad in a simple grey flannel shirt, 
while his nether garments were of the common moleskin 
type. He was old, but how old Wilder could not estimate 
with any certainty. His eyelessness, and his snow-white 
hair and beard made the task impossible. One thing alone 
impressed the onlooker in those first startled moments. 
The man was blind, and his skin, in sharp contrast with 
his hair, was of a darkish yellow. In a moment he had 
realised the truth of his original estimate of the nation¬ 
ality of his unwilling hosts. 

The woman at the blindman’s side was a quaint, pathe¬ 
tic little figure. She, too, was old, with greying black 
hair. She was clad in something in the nature of a silken 
kimono, and looked as fragile as a figure of exquisite 
porcelain. Her slightly slanting black eyes were steadily 
searching the face of the white intruder while she stood 
clasping the hand of the man at her side, in a manner 


THE EYES IN THE NIGHT 


177 


suggesting motherly solicitude. There was nothing re¬ 
sentful in her gaze. It was simply appealing, troubled, 
appraising. 

The whiteman’s order held them. They remained mo¬ 
tionless, without a word or sign, just where they had 
been discovered. It was almost as if, like naughty chil¬ 
dren, they were awaiting the expected chiding following 
upon some escapade in which they had been found out. 

Realising their submission Wilder’s attitude underwent 
a change. He dismissed his tone of sharp authority, but 
retained his threatening gun in evidence. 

“If you’ve a notion to come out into the open instead 
of spying around in hiding I’ll put this gun up, and we 
can talk,” he said, with a look in his eyes closely approach¬ 
ing a smile. “You see, I knew you were around, and 
only took possession of your room in the hope of bring¬ 
ing you out into daylight. Guess you’ve nothing to 
worry with if ther’s no monkey-play doing. Well?” 

He eyed them both searchingly while he spoke, but it 
was the queer little, troubled-eyed woman whom he really 
addressed. The painful fascination of the man’s terrible 
eyes had passed leaving behind only a feeling of nausea. 

After the briefest hesitation the woman spoke. She 
spoke in good enough English with just the faintest for¬ 
eign accent and occasional awkward twist in her phrase¬ 
ology. Eler voice was low and infinitely sweet, and her 
whole manner suggested intense relief from some over¬ 
whelming burden of terror. 

“We feared it was the man, Usak, come back,” she 
said. “He say he would come, and we look for him all 
the time. But you are white. Oh, yes. You are not the 
Indian that he is. You come like all those others who 
look for the thing this country has to give. It is so? 
Yes ?” 


12 


178 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


With the mention of the Indian whom Wilder knew to 
have been the servant of the murdered Marty Le Gros 
there came a movement on the part of the blindman. It 
was a gesture, sudden and almost forceful. And the hand 
that made it was that which the woman beside him was 
grasping. He half turned as though about to speak. But 
he remained silent, obviously restraining himself with 
difficulty. 

Wilder saw the movement. He realised the man’s 
sudden disquiet. And he understood. A feeling of ela¬ 
tion swept over him. These people feared the coming of 
Usak. These two strange, shy creatures in their far-off 
secret home. And Usak had threatened them with his 
return. Why ? 

Suppressing his elation Wilder smiled down at the 
woman, so helpless, so appealing in the terror she was 
unable to conceal. 

“No,” he said almost gently. “I’m not Usak. I’m just 
a whiteman with two companions. Guess they’re white, 
too. You see, we came right on this place of yours with¬ 
out knowing about it. You don’t need to be worried. 
But I got to make a big talk with you before I quit. And 
seeing ther’s not a big diff’rence between day an’ night in 
this queer country do you feel like making that swell hall 
of yours below and sitting around for that talk ? Do you ? 
Both?” 

Wilder’s gentleness was the outcome of an irresistible 
feeling of pity for the frightened woman. It had nothing 
to do with the thing he had in mind. The name of Usak 
was uppermost with him now, and he knew that one, at 
least, of these strange figures was in some way deeply 
connected with the ugly riddle it was his work to solve. 
His chivalry refused to associate the woman with it. It 
was different, however, with the man for all his terrible 


THE EYES IN THE NIGHT 


179 


sightlessness. The man replied to him immediately and 
his voice was harsh and cold. Its tone was wholly un¬ 
compromising. 

“We can talk,” he said shortly. 

Wilder’s whole manner hardened on the instant. And 
his answer came sharply, and his tone was no less uncom¬ 
promising than that of the other. 

“That’s all right,” he said. “Lead the way down. 
And don’t forget ther’s a ‘forty-five’ gun right behind 
you all the way.” 

• •*•••» 

Bill Wilder had long since learned the lessons of a 
country in which chance seemed to be the dominating fac¬ 
tor of life. His hard schooling in the wide scattered 
goldfields of Yukon Territory had forced the conviction 
on him that chance was a better servant in this northern 
country than hard sense. And he knew now that sheer 
chance had flung him stumbling upon something that, if 
not actually the heart of the mystery of the murder of 
Marty Le Gros by the Euralians, was at least no mean 
key to it. 

At the woman’s mention of the Indian, Usak, his mind 
had leapt back to the story which George Raymes had 
been able, however inadequately, to piece together from 
his old police reports. Usak, he remembered, was the 
husband of the squaw who had been murdered. These 
two people feared his coming so that they completely hid 
themselves at the approach of strangers. Usak had 
threatened them with his return. Therefore he had 
visited them before. For what purpose? They were 
frightened for their lives of him. Why should they be? 
Usak’s squaw had been murdered by—Euralians. 

Surveying the sturdy back of the white-haired man, 
blinded, helpless, being led by the pathetic, devoted 


i8o 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


woman at his side, as he shepherded them to the hall be¬ 
low, he remembered once long ago, in his chequered 
career in Placer, to have seen a man whose eyes had been 
gouged in a bar-room fight. He remembered the hideous 
spectacle he had been left, and he knew that the man he 
had just discovered had endured the same terrible, inhu¬ 
man, treatment. Usak? Was that the source of the 
terror he had inspired? 

Reaching the hall his hosts took up their position 
standing near the centre, stone-built fireplace. They had 
faced about so that they confronted him, and Wilder 
understood the woman had simply obeyed the man’s un¬ 
spoken command. 

The harsh voice of the blindman jarred on the quiet of 
the room. 

“You are an intruder,” he declared, his eyeless sockets 
turned unerringly on the whiteman’s face. “You invade 
our home unbidden. You threaten us with your gun un¬ 
provoked. You say you are a whiteman. We are help¬ 
less. I cannot even see you, and my wife is defenceless. 
Well?” He shrugged with infinite contempt. “You de¬ 
mand talk with us. Go on.” 

Wilder’s impulse was to retort sharply. But he re¬ 
strained it. Where there should have been pity for a 
blindman living out a darkened life in these far-off moun¬ 
tains there was only antagonism and instant prejudice. 
He understood how it came well enough. Instinct as well 
as swift conclusion warned him that behind those eyeless 
sockets there dwelt a mind driven by a nature something 
evil. For the moment, however, he must adopt concilia¬ 
tion. Any other course would, in all probability, defeat 
his ends. So his tone became that of easy moderation. 
He laughed. 

“Guess I’m all you reckon, sir,” he said. “Yes, I’m 


THE EYES IN THE NIGHT 


181 


an intruder, and I need to pass you a hundred apologies. 
But what else could I do? Anyway, the best now would 
be to hand you the meaning of the thing I’m doing. You 
see, I’m out looking for things. The sort of things this 
queer valley looks like handing out. I’m on a big pros¬ 
pect, and these hills look to be full of the things I want. 
This is the second year I’ve been on the trail, east, and 
west, and north, and now—well, I guess it hasn’t been 
for nothing.” 

“Oil? You’ve found the oil this valley is full of?” 

The blindman’s question came sharply, but without 
alarm. His tone had lost something of its harshness, and 
Wilder was satisfied. With deliberation, and almost os¬ 
tentatiously, he put his automatic pistol back into his hip 
pocket. And he knew that the quick eyes of the woman 
were watching his movements and conveying the story 
of them voicelessly, through her hand clasp, to the man. 
Then he moved over to the chair which was turned about 
from the bureau, and flung himself into it. 

“Maybe,” he said. Then he indicated the couch which 
stood nearby to a tall carved wooden screen. “Won’t you 
sit?” he went on pleasantly. “It’s not for me to offer 
you a seat in your own house, but—” He broke off with 
a light laugh. “Maybe we’ll be quite a while talking.” 

His whole manner had assumed the cordiality he in¬ 
tended. There was a moment of hesitation. Then, with¬ 
out a word, the woman led her charge across to the dusty 
couch. But she did not move directly across. The couch 
stood opposite where they stood yet she led the man mak¬ 
ing a deliberate detour and Wilder was puzzled. Then, 
glancing down at the floor, he realised something which 
had hitherto escaped him. A large ugly stain of brown 
was splashed on the polished flooring. 

There was no mistaking it. He recognised it instantly. 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


182 

It was unquestionably a blood-stain, and by its extent he 
judged it to be blood from a mortal wound. His ques¬ 
tioning gaze sought the two queer figures at once. The 
woman had carefully avoided it, and he interpreted her 
action in the only way possible. She evidently under¬ 
stood the origin of that stain, and repugnance inspired 
her movements. 

They sat themselves on the couch side by side and 
Wilder went on as though nothing had distracted his at¬ 
tention. He turned his chair so that he faced them. 

“Yes, ther’s oil in this valley,” he said. “My two 
friends reckon there’s enough oil to feed the whole world. 
But I’ve got scruples,” he laughed, “for all you may be 
guessing the other way. Say, before I get busy farther 
up the creek I’d be glad to know just how we stand. 
You’re here on an oil play? And I’m not yearning for 
trouble. Is this oil game your play? Have you a con¬ 
cession? Am I butting in on a big commercial proposi¬ 
tion that’s already established? I’d be glad to know, 
Mr.—” 

Wilder broke off invitingly. Yet, for all there were 
signs of the mollifying effect of his attitude in the man, 
several moments passed before a reply was forthcoming. 

At last the snow-white head inclined affirmatively. 

“You have scruples,” he said. “You desire not to butt 
in. Yet you invade my house. You ransack it. You 
treat it so as it is your right to do these things. You 
threaten with your gun when I come forth.” 

He shrugged. But this time it was without any dis¬ 
play of feeling. He was calmly questioning, and his 
attitude displayed a suspicion of puzzlement. 

Wilder suddenly squared himself in his chair. 

“Here,” he cried. “Let’s be frank. My name’s 
Wilder. Bill Wilder. I’m a gold man first and foremost. 


THE EYES IN THE NIGHT 183 

After that, why, I guess I'm just as much an adventurer 
as most of the folk of this Northland. That’s all right. 
I’m not out to rob a soul of anything he’s a right to. And 
as for the things you guess I had no right to do, just 
think a bit. Here I find a house without a sign of life. 
You choose to hide yourselves up. Well? A derelict 
house here in the Arctic? Why, I guess I’ve as much 
right to search it as to search for anything else this coun¬ 
try’s got to show us. As for the gun play it seems to me 
a man has every right to protect himself when folks 
sneak in on him in the night. That’s my answer to all 
that’s worrying you. And my name, as I said, is Wilder. 
Who are you?” 

There was a sweeping bluntness about the challenge 
that should have been irresistible. Wilder waited for the 
answer he demanded while reserving a trump card to play 
in case of refusal. 

There was no change in the blindman’s attitude. There 
was no movement. His yellow face remained sphinx- 
like. 

“Maybe I should not blame you,” he said, in his harsh 
fashion. “You make a good case. But—I am blind. 
Here,” he went on, in imitation of the other, with a slight 
gesture of his disengaged hand, “I will not tell you the 
things you ask. But I tell you some other. This valley 
is the great oil bed of these mountains, and the oil is 
being tapped. If you touch on this oil you will never 
leave the valley alive. Those who are working it have 
been doing so for many years. It is their established 
right, for no one has denied them in all the years. No 
one has come near. They find it and work it. It is 
equity. I have no place in this thing. I am—blind.” 

Wilder’s eyes hardened. He glanced from the man to 
the woman. In the latter’s eyes was a look of renewed 


184 THE LUCK OF THE KID 

apprehension, almost of pleading, and he felt that she 
was waiting for the effect of her man’s words. 

“Then you fear to tell me—who you are?” he asked 
quietly. 

“I fear nothing.” 

“Nothing? Yet you fear the coming of this man you 
call—Usak. You fear the sight of every stranger?” 

Wilder’s gaze was on the anxious face of the woman. 
His words were for her benefit. But they had an unex¬ 
pected effect. The blindman suddenly unbent. 

“It is as I said,” he declared, his tone moderating but 
assuming a bitterness of real feeling. “I fear no one and 
nothing. I am blind. I am completely alone, but for my 
good wife. I live through her hands, her eyes, her will. 
What is the worst that may happen ? Death ? It is noth¬ 
ing—now. I am a dead man to the world—now. I am 
blind. Once it was not so. Once in this home, here in 
this valley, there were servants who worked at my com¬ 
mand. There were many interests in my life. Now it is 
changed. The light has gone out, and with it have passed 
those who obeyed my will, those who depended for their 
well-being on my word. It is the way of such service. 
Rats never fail to quit the doomed ship,” he cried bitterly. 
“I have nothing to fear. Least of all—death.” 

“Not even—punishment?” 

Wilder’s hazard came instantly. It was well calculated. 
The blood-stain on the floor was within his view. Then 
there was the story of Marty Le Gros, and of Usak, who 
inspired such terror in the woman. 

The yellow man started. It was as if an effort of will 
was striving for vision through his empty sockets. For 
a moment he made no answer, and headlong panic had 
returned to the woman’s eyes. It was the latter that re¬ 
moved the last shadow of doubt from Wilder’s mind. 


THE EYES IN THE NIGHT 185 

“Punishment? For what?” The man spoke in a low, 
fierce voice. 

Wilder thought swiftly before replying. He under¬ 
stood that he was right up against the stone wall of the 
yellow man’s determination. There was only one course 
left him. If he could not climb it he must batter it to 
ruins. His earlier hazard was a small enough thing com¬ 
pared with the decision he took now. He rose from his 
chair and stood towering over the diminutive pair on the 
couch. His eyes were coldly compelling, and his whole 
manner was carefully calculated for its effect upon the 
helpless little woman, whom he could not help pitying. 

“Here,” he cried sharply. “Let’s cut this fencing right 
out. You refuse to pass me the name you are known by. 
You refuse to tell me the meaning of this home hidden 
beyond human sight in a valley that’s full to the lips of 
oil. Well, I guess I’ll hand you the story you’re scared to 
hand me. You reckon you don’t fear a thing. Psha! You 
can’t get away with that play. It wouldn’t leave a two- 
year-old kid guessing. I’m quitting now. I’ve brought 
you into the open, an’ I’ve located in you an answer to a 
hundred guesses. I’m quitting now, but you won’t be left 
unwatched. You won’t get a chance to make a get-away. 
You’ve had mostly fifteen years to do that, an’ I don’t 
know why you stopped around with the man, Usak, 
threatening to come right back on you. Maybe because 
you’re blind and deserted. Maybe because you’ve a mighty 
big stake lying around. Maybe it’s because ther’s other 
queer folk of your own race, who, for their own reasons, 
don’t fancy letting you quit. It don’t matter. What does 
matter is I’m quitting now because this is Alaskan Terri¬ 
tory. I’m going down country to get things fixed with the 
United States authority to have you brought right into 
our country to tell us how the missionary, Marty Le Gros, 


i86 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


was murdered by the Euralians who people these hills, and 
who I guess are nothing but a crowd of Japanese pirates 
out grabbing in whiteman’s territory. You’re scared of 
nothing, eh? Can you face that? Can you face the 
return of the man, Usak, whose wife was murdered at the 
same time ? Can you tell us why they were murdered, and 
what happened to the great gold ‘strike’ that poor darn 
feller made? I’m quitting now just to fix this thing. An’ 
my boys’ll see you make no get-away meanwhile. And 
as for your threat of the Euralian pirates working the oil 
on this valley, that cuts no sort of ice with us. We’ve 
been fighting these folk a year an’ more. You see, we’re 
officers of the Canadian Police.” 

• • • • ® • • 

The imagination, the sweeping grasp of the clear-think¬ 
ing mind that had lifted Bill Wilder from the depths of 
the whirlpool of humanity that had early flooded the gold 
regions of the North, to the highest pinnacle of success in 
a traffic wherein vision and courage were the chief 
essentials, had served him now far better than he knew. 

The first spoken words of the little Japanese woman in 
her terror had welded a hundred links together into a 
connected chain such as no amount of ordinary labour in 
investigation could have supplied him with. 

There was no question except the given names of these 
people left in his mind. There were convictions that 
perhaps needed corroboration to reduce them to concrete 
facts. But that caused him no worry. It had been said 
of Wilder that half a story was all he needed, he could 
always supply the rest. It was so in the present case. 

He left the house without a doubt remaining. This 
place was the home of the Euralian organization, or had 
been before that fantastic figure of avenging had left the 
man he had just parted from with eyeless sockets. What 


THE EYES IN THE NIGHT 


187 


scenes had been enacted there he could only guess at. But 
there it was, safely hidden, with its watch tower, the heart 
of a natural fortress located with the profoundest judg¬ 
ment for the purposes desired. And he was convinced, 
that, at any rate, the man who still lived his darkened life 
there was surely one of the instruments, if not the actual 
instrument, through which the man, Marty Le Gros, had 
met his death. He was one of the Euralians, and, like as 
not, the chief organizing head, since deposed through his 
physical disability by his lawless subjects. Furthermore 
he had finally satisfied himself that he had achieved the 
thing he had set out to accomplish. The Euralians as they 
called themselves were definitely of Japanese origin. 

As he passed into the surrounding woods the immensity 
of the truth he had stumbled upon came home to him in 
an almost overwhelming rush. The Yellow Peril which 
the world had talked of, feared, and politically discussed 
for over a decade, had suddenly become a reality to him. 
Here was just one little branch of it. And the manner of 
it gave point to the subtle, secret fashion in which it was 
being developed. Imagination was a-riot. These people 
were Japanese. They were probably a hardy people from 
northern Japan, under the control of a carefully chosen 
leader of capacity and knowledge, such as he realised the 
man he had just left to have been before his disaster of 
blindness. They were imported through the far-hidden 
northern inlets to the country on which, leech-like, they 
had battened. They came, a sea-faring race, over the 
northern waters, and set about the simple task of possess¬ 
ing this far, almost unpeopled territory, and extracting 
its wealth for their own service. And what became of that 
wealth, mineral and animal? What of the furs which 
they stole, or traded with the Eskimo? What of the oil 
of this valley? What of the unguessed wealth of coal 


i88 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


deposits which were believed to exist? The gold, too, 
and the hundred and one other raw materials which 
littered this far-off, unexplored land? 

The northern seas; the great harbours of the northern 
coasts, lost from view of the few scattered white folks, 
hidden amongst rugged, snow-capped hills, and more 
than half their time completely icebound. It was simple, 
so very simple to the north-men of Japan, who were born 
sailors. Doubtless a steady traffic among those hidden 
inlets went on, and disguised freighters passed to-and-fro 
between the Alaskan coast and the remoter ports of the 
land of Nippon. 

And meanwhile the penetration of this whiteman’s 
country was steadily progressing. Who could say the 
extent of that penetration? It was southern California 
over again. And the invaders were only waiting, waiting 
for the day to dawn when- 

The breaking of bush just behind him as he passed on 
towards the creek brought him to a halt. He faced about 
alertly and his hand shot into the pocket where his auto¬ 
matic pistol lay ready for use. But it was withdrawn 
empty almost immediately. The diminutive woman with 
the slanting, terrified eyes broke from the undergrowth, 
something breathless from her exertion, and stood before 
him. 

His eyes were smiling with a kindliness he made no at¬ 
tempt to disguise at sight of her. The memory of her 
devotion to her sightless man was uppermost for all he 
had fathomed the meaning of their presence on the river. 
She seemed to him a gentle creature, hopelessly con¬ 
demned to a task of utter self-sacrifice. And he deplored 
the painful terror under which she suffered so acutely. 
The shame and pity of it all touched him deeply. 

“Say, mam,” he said, in a re-assuring tone, “you took 



THE EYES IN THE NIGHT 


189 

a big chance coming that way. I’m guessing for the thing 
that set you worrying to come up with me on the run in 
a heat liable to hand apoplexy to a brass image.” 

But there was no re-assurance in the urgent gaze that 
looked up into his face. The poor creature’s bosom 
heaved with obvious emotion. She opened her almost 
colourless lips to speak, but no sound came. Instead she 
closed them again and glanced behind her fearfully. 

Wilder understood. He had supposed her to be simply 
a messenger. Now he realised she feared discovery by 
the blindman she had left behind her. 

Presently she turned to him again, and thrust one thin, 
delicate hand into the bosom of her gown where it re¬ 
mained while she flung a terrified inquiry at him. 

“You go so to make it that they come and take him, 
and kill him, for the killing of the miss—the man, Le 
Gros?” she shook her head violently. “No, no!” she 
cried passionately. “He not kill Le Gros! They must 
not kill him. Sate kill Le Gros, and Usak come and 
kill Sate, and all the men. He fight to kill my Hela, too. 
But he put out his eyes. You are officer police. The 
great Canadian Police. You know good what is right, 
what is wrong. I tell you all. I tell you all the truth. 
My Hela not kill no man. It our dead son kill this man, 
an’ the other. I know. Hela tell me. He tell me all.” 

The smile had passed from Wilder’s eyes as he listened 
to the almost breathless, headlong rush of the poor crea¬ 
ture’s desperate appeal for her man. 

“Did he send you to say this?” he asked, knowing well 
that the man could not have inspired such acting in her. 

“Hela send me?” The woman’s eyes widened. “No! 
Oh, no! If he know I am come then I—I know no more. 
Hela send me? No! I come for him. I come so you 
know all the thing he will not tell.” 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


190 


“Why?” 

“Because I die if you send and kill my Hela,” she cried, 
with a world of despair in the simple declaration. 

Wilder stood for a moment thinking deeply. He 
turned from the pathetic figure which somehow distracted 
his judgment. And he knew that he must decide quickly 
and make no mistake. 

Finally he turned to her again. And the smile had re¬ 
turned to his steady eyes. 

“Tell me so I can understand,” he said gently. “Tell 
me all there is to it, just the truth. Tell me who you 
are, and' what you’re doing around this valley. And if 
you show me the whole thing right, and if your—Hela— 
did not kill, then you need have no sort of worry he’ll 
come to harm through me. You get that? Pass me 
the story, and make it short. But it’s got to be sheer 
truth.” 

The woman’s hand remained buried in the bosom of 
her gown, and now she raised the other, and, a picture of 
submission and humility, she stood with it pressed over 
that which was hidden in her bosom. Her black eyes 
were less fearful, her lined cheeks were less drawn. Her 
whole appearance suggested the passing of something 
of the weight of terror under which she had been labour¬ 
ing. 

She began her story at once. She spoke quietly, in 
contrast with her recent emotion, and in the curious 
broken phraseology which denoted her rare use of a 
tongue she otherwise knew well enough. 

She told him that her man was Count Ukisama—Hela 
Ukisama—and that she was his wife, Crysa. She told 
him that he was the head, and original organizer of the 
people who were called the Euralians. She told him they 
came, as he had already guessed, from Northern Japan, 


THE EYES IN THE NIGHT 


191 

and were engaged in a great traffic in furs with the 
Eskimo, which were secretly exported in whalers from 
the far northern harbours of the country. But she 
warned him this was not the whole trade. There was oil 
and coal. But most desired of all was the gold which 
they had found in these northern valleys for years. 

Close questioning, as she proceeded, quickly showed 
Wilder that she was completely ignorant of the methods 
by which this traffic was carried on. She knew nothing 
of the hideous murder and piracy which was the whole 
story of these yellow marauders. Obviously she was 
told by her husband only those things he considered were 
sufficient for her to know. 

When she came to the story of Marty Le Gros, and his 
gold “strike,” it was clearly different. Here she was ap¬ 
parently aware of every detail, and she made it plain that 
after the coming of Usak, and Ukisama had been so in¬ 
humanly blinded, she had forced her husband to tell her 
the true meaning of the terrible thing that had happened. 

It was a story that lost nothing of its awful significance 
from her broken and sometimes almost incoherent way of 
telling it. He learnt how Ukisama and his son Sate had 
heard of Le Gros’ “strike,” and how they strove by every 
means in their power to jump in on it. How they had 
searched Loon Creek from end to end, and finally aban¬ 
doned their search convinced that the missionary had 
given that as the locality simply to mislead. Then at 
once they became angry and were determined to make 
him yield them his secret. 

She told him of the descent upon the mission at Fox 
Bluff, where they meant to wring his secret from him, 
and how they had utterly failed through the impetuosity 
of her son, Sate, who, when the missionary prepared to 
defend himself with his guns, fired a reckless shot which 


192 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


mortally wounded him. Hela, she declared, deplored the 
act as ruining his chance of learning the man’s secret. 
Then she declared that the squaw of the man Usak had 
interfered, and again the hot-headed Sate had taken the 
matter into his own hands and shot her down. 

“And your Hela, this boy’s father, just looked on while 
this was done?” 

Wilder’s question came sharply when the woman nar¬ 
rated this incredible detail of her story with an air of 
entirely honest conviction. 

“No, no,” she cried, and hastily launched a torrential 
defence of her blinded charge. 

She denied flatly that her husband desired to harm a 
hair of the head of anyone. But Sate was a wild youth 
whom none could tame, and least of all his father. No. 
When his father found what had been done he became 
scared, and it was then he did the only thing left him. 
He fired the mission in the hope of hiding up his son’s 
crime. Then she said they hastened away, and came up 
the river with all speed. But they had forgotten Usak, 
whom they had not encountered. She did not know how 
it came, nor did her husband. But Usak knew them. He 
knew their home here in this valley, and he set out, and, 
by means they did not understand, he arrived at this house 
before them. 

Then she detailed, with painful emotion the things that 
happened with Usak’s coming. How he, a great, fierce 
Indian man, stole in on the house and murdered their 
three servants—the rest all being away with her husband. 
The last one, after being mortally wounded by the 
Indian’s hunting knife, managing to reach her in the 
sitting hall to warn her. He fell dead on the floor in a 
pool of blood before her eyes. In her terror she had 
hastily fled to the secret cellars which were under the 


THE EYES IN THE NIGHT 


193 


house, where they stored their trade in gold. And so 
she remained until Usak had passed from the house of 
death. Then long afterwards, she learned from Hela 
that he passed down the river and waited for their return 
with the canoe. He waited hidden on the bank. And he 
shot every man in the canoe as it passed, including their 
son Sate. He spared none. Not one—except her hus¬ 
band. And so her husband made the landing where she 
was awaiting him. 

Then came the final tragedy. The Indian was in hid¬ 
ing. He had kept pace with the boat, and when Hela 
landed he leapt out on him to complete his terrible pur¬ 
pose. He fought not to kill but to blind. And he suc¬ 
ceeded. He left her man alive, but with his eyes lying on 
his cheeks. And, before he went, he warned them what 
he had done was sufficient for the time. But that later, 
after a long time, he would return and kill them both. 

“And he will come,” she wailed in conclusion. “For 
he is an Indian, and his squaw was killed by our son. He 
will come. Oh, yes.” 

“Yet you stay here? Why?” Again came Wilder’s 
sharp question. He had steeled himself against the pity 
which the woman’s unutterable despair inspired. 

The little creature shook her head in complete helpless¬ 
ness. 

“How we go?” she asked. “It cannot be. He is blind. 
We are alone. The men leave us now he is blind. They 
trade for themselves. Hela no longer has power. They 
laugh in his face if he make order for them to obey. No. 
And they will not let him go either. They keep him 
here. They know. If he go back to Japan then another 
is sent who sees. Then these men no longer trade for 
themselves. No. They will not let him go. They keep 
him here. They pass us food. They let them not know in 


13 


194 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


Japan the thing it is. An’ so they work the oil, and coal, 
and gold. And they travel far for the furs. And so it is. 
And then sometime Usak will come again, and then— 
and then-” 

Suddenly she withdrew the hand which had remained 
all the time she was telling her story in the bosom of her 
dress. It was grasping a large, folded paper. She held] 
it out, literally thrusting it at Wilder, who took it from 
her with gravely questioning eyes. 

“What is it?” he demanded, and curiosity had replaced 
the sharpness in his voice. 

“The plan of the gold. The gold of this Marty Le 
Gros. It is for you. I give it. So you will make it that 
Usak not come again to kill. You, an officer police.” 

Wilder opened the paper and glanced at it. A clear 
exact drawing was inscribed on its discoloured surface. 
It was a map in minute detail, and he re-folded it quickly 
while his gaze searched the urgent eyes raised to his. 

“You give me this?” he said, in a quiet fashion that 
revealed none of the surge of excitement with which he 
was suddenly filled. 

“Yes.” 

The little woman who had called herself Crysa Uki- 
sama suddenly flung out her hands in an agony of vehe¬ 
ment appeal. 

“I give it. I take this thing from its place. This bad 
thing, which is evil to us. He not know I take it. Oh, 
no. Sate find it in the house of the missionary before 
they fire it. And he, Hela, not give it up. No. Yet he 
cannot see it. He cannot find this place. He say, too, 
it is evil, and no one must see it. So I hide it all this long 
time, and keep it. But I know. So long we keep it this 
Usak sure come back an’ kill us. It is for that bad paper 
he come. It make him come. You take it. You have it. 



THE EYES IN THE NIGHT 


195 


And maybe you give it Usak so he will not come back. 
You officer police. You know this man? You say, Hela 
Ukisama send it so he not come an’ kill my Hela? You 
think that? You make him not come? Oh, I go mad 
when he come bimeby. Yes. He kill my Hela. Same as 
he kill all other man. I know. Oh!” 

With her last wailing cry Crysa buried her face in her 
delicate, ageing hands, and a passion of emotion racked 
her frail body. Wilder looked on in that helplessness 
which all men experience in face of a woman’s outburst 
of genuine grief. He waited. There was nothing else 
for him to do, and, presently, the distraught creature 
recovered herself. 

Then he reached out, and one hand came to rest on 
the silken-clad shoulder. 

‘‘You’ve told me the truth as far as you know it, my 
dear,” he said very gently. “You’ve been hit hard. 
Darn hard. So hard I don’t know just what to say to 
you. But you’ve done well passing me that story and 
that paper, and I’m going to do all I know to help you. 
See here, I’m not going to hand you out all sorts of rash 
promises, but, if ther’s a thing I can do to stop that 
Indian man, Usak, getting around back here to hurt you, 
why, I’m just going to do it. Go right back to your man 
now. He’s been pretty badly punished. So badly it 
don’t seem to me he needs a thing more of that sort 
this earth can hand him. And as for you you’ve deserved 
none of it. Go back to him, and you have my given 
word, that, just as hard as I’ve worked on the thing the 
p’lice have sent me out to do, I’ll work to see no harm 
comes to you from this Indian man. So long.” 


CHAPTER VII 


THE DREAM HILL 

It was less than ten weeks to the time when the first 
fierce rush of winter might be expected. Already the days 
were shortening down with their customary rush, and in 
a brief time only the Caribou Valley, the river, the whole 
world of the far North would be lost to sight under the 
white shroud of battling elements, whose merciless war¬ 
fare would be waged, with only brief intervals of 
armistice, until such time as the summer daylight dawned 
again. 

Hesther McLeod was sitting in her doorway. It was 
the favoured sitting place she usually selected when the 
flies and summer heat made her rough kitchen something 
approaching the intolerable. The intense heat of summer 
was lessening, but the ominous chill of winter had not 
yet made itself felt. The sky had lost something of its 
summer brilliance, and clouds were wont to bank heavily 
with the threat of the coming season. But the flies re¬ 
mained. They would undoubtedly remain until swept 
from the face of the earth by the first heavy frost. 

Hesther was assiduously battling with one of her many 
tasks while she talked in her simple, homely fashion to 
the Kid, who was standing beside her. The foster-mother 
was frail but wiry, and, with her greying brown hair and 
thin face, looked the work-worn, happy philosopher she 

196 


THE DREAM HILL 


197 


actually was. The Kid was a picture of charming 
femininity for all the mannish mode of her working 
clothes. Her pretty, rounded figure would not be denied 
under the beaded caribou-skin parka that reached almost 
to her knees. It was belted in about the waist, and a 
fierce-looking hunting knife protruded from its slung 
sheath. Her wealth of fair hair was supposed to be 
tightly coiled under the enveloping cap drawn down 
over it. But it had fallen, as it usually fell, upon her 
shoulders as though refusing to endure imprisonment 
when the sun it loved to reflect was shining. Her blue 
eyes were deeply thoughtful just now as they regarded 
the bowed head of the beloved mother woman. She 
watched the nimble fingers spread the buckskin patch out 
over the jagged rent in the seat of Perse’s diminutive 
breeches. 

“You know,” Hesther said, without looking up, “that 
little feller Perse’ll make good someways. I can’t guess 
how. But his queer little head’s plumb full of things that 
stick worse than flies. An’ even though the seat of his 
pants drops right out, which it’s mostly doing all the time, 
he’ll foller his notion clear through to the end. He’s 
got the gold bug now, an’ spends most all his time 
skiddin’ himself over rocks an’ things chasin’ what he 
wouldn’t rec’nise if he beat his pore little head right up 
against it. I want to laff most all the time at his yarns. 
But I just don’t. I’ve a hunch to see him do things.” 

The Kid nodded. 

“Yes,” she agreed simply. Then her gaze was turned 
to the distant river where its shining waters could just 
be seen beyond the lank jack pines which surrounded the 
rambling house. “Perse is the brightest of the bunch. 
You know, Mum, it’s kind of queer us talking of the 
kids making good. We don’t ever stop to guess how 


198 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


they’re going to do it—away up here, thousands of miles 
from, from anywhere.” 

Hesther flung a quick upward glance at the sweet 
weather-tanned face that was no longer smiling. She 
was wondering, for the girl’s tone had a note in it to 
which she was quite unaccustomed. In a moment, how¬ 
ever, her eyes had dropped again to the thick patch cut 
from a caribou moccasin she was endeavouring to make 
fast to the child’s tattered pants. 

“Trouble, Kid?” she asked, without looking up again. 

These two understood each other. A deep bond of 
sympathy and love held them. The girl looked to this 
brave little widow of Jim McLeod for sympathy and 
comfort in her distress as a child looks to its mother. In 
affairs which needed capacity and strong execution the 
position was reversed. This girl of twenty, supported by 
the staunch Usak, strong in spirit and youthful optimism, 
wide in her grasp of the affairs of the farm, was responsi¬ 
ble leader in all pertaining to their livelihood. Just now 
the girl was troubled and Hesther realised that the Kid 
had not abandoned her afternoon’s work at the corrals 
simply for idle talk at her doorway. Her interrogation 
was calculated. She wanted the girl to talk. 

“Nothing worse than usual, Mum,” she said with a 
sigh. “It’ll be two years since Ben Needham went, come 
next opening. We’ve enough supplies to see us through 
six months. That’s the limit. Usak’ll be along back 
before the freeze-up. Weil, things depend on the trade 
he brings back, and a winter trail to Placer. Do you 
get it? By next spring our stores’ll be run out. If he 
brings back good trade, and no accident happens along 
on our winter trail, we’ll be in fairly good shape for 
awhile. But it just means we can’t put in another season 
right through. I don’t see how we can, unless we have 


THE DREAM HILL 


199 


mighty good luck. The thing’s as dead as caribou meat 
without a market right alongside, like it was when Ben 
Needham was around. We’re right here beyond the 
edge of the world, and—and it can’t be done.” 

“You mean—quit? An’ with the boys coming along? 
The twins are nearly sixteen.” 

The mother laboured on assiduously. The busy needle 
punched its way through the tough buckskin with a sharp 
click as the strong fingers plied it. 

The Kid glanced down at the bowed figure. 

“The boys are good. Alg is a real man around the 
deer,” she said, with a shadow of a smile in her pretty 
eyes. “Clarence is hardening into a tough trail man. 
Usak reckons he’s a great feller to have with him. But 
it’s not that, Mum. It’s the trade these wretched 
Euralians beat us out of, and the distance to our 
market.” 

“Is that all it is. Kid?” 

Hesther’s needle was still. She was looking up with a 
pair of soft, brown, questioning eyes, and the gentle 
mentality behind them was reading the girl through and 
through with a certainty that her transparent simplicity 
and innocence made possible. 

“How can it be anything else, Mum? I guess ther’s 
nothing around this farm to worry with but the feeding 
of hungry mouths.” 

The Kid had turned away. Again her eyes had sought 
the gleam of waters sedately flowing on to their junction 
with the greater river beyond. 

The mother shook her head. She leant forward on 
her door-sill with her lean, bare arms folded over her 
offspring’s clothing. 

“I don’t just see how it can be a thing else,” she 
admitted promptly. “But I was thinkin’. You see, Kid, 


200 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


you’re over twenty. Let’s see. Why, I guess you’re 
over twenty-one. Yes. Sure you must be.” 

And she deliberately began to count up the years that 
had passed since the terrible time of the descent of the 
Euralians on Fox Bluff. The girl watched the counting 
fingers, and the abstracted gaze of the other as she 
reckoned up her sum. 

“But what’s that to do with it, Mum?” she cried. 
“Sure I’m over twenty-one, but-” 

Hesther laughed gently. She shook her head. 

“There was no talk of quitting, whatever our trade, 
before you made Placer last year with Usak. Say, Kid,” 
she went on, with infinite sympathy and gentleness, 
“you’re a woman now. You aren’t a—Kid—any longer. 
Does it tell you anything?” She raised a pointing finger 
that was painfully work-worn, and admonished her. 
“My dear, things are a heap different through a woman’s 
eyes. When you’re a kid you’re mostly crazy with every 
new thing just living can show you. When you’re a 
woman it isn’t life just to live. Ther’s a whole book full 
o’ feelings, and wants, an’ notions start in to worry 
around, and the answer to ’em isn’t found in the work 
of running a caribou farm, and beating a bunch of 
scallawags who’re grabbing your trade. It isn’t found 
in yearning to hand a stomach full o’ food to a crowd 
of kids you love like brothers an’ sisters, either.” 

The girl’s eyes were searching for all their responsive 
smile, and she made no attempt at denial. 

“Wher’ d’you find the answer, Mum?” she asked. 

The older woman’s eye fell serious. A wistful yearn¬ 
ing crept into them. 

“I found it in two things when I was your age,” she 
said. “First it was in the excitement of fancy clothes, 
and parties, where folks of my own age got around, boys 



THE DREAM HILL 


201 


and gals. Then I guessed the answer to every yearning 
I had was in my Jim, and in the bunch o’ scallawags he 
set crawling around my knees. Why, Kid, this queer 
old world’s just got only one place where it can make me 
feel good. It’s where my Jim’s babies are. You been 
down to Placer. You and Usak. You’ve seen a big city 
where ther’s white-folk like yourself, where ther’s lights 
burning on the streets, and folks dancing, and parties 
racketing, and the boys and gals are having quite a 
time. Then you get along back to the farm here, and the 
kids, and, maybe, me. And I guess you’re glad—for 
awhile.” 

The girl moved from the door-casing where she had 
been leaning. She abruptly dropped to a seat on the 
door-sill beside Hesther, and took possession of the thin, 
strong hand nearest to her. There was a change in her 
as sudden as had been her movements. Her eyes were 
shining and full of something Hesther had never seen 
in them before. And somehow the magnetism of it, her 
sudden, almost passionate earnestness claimed the older 
woman and left her with a feeling that was something 
scared. 

“Tell me, Mum,” she cried, in a thrilling voice. “You 
haven’t told me enough. You loved your Jim. Tell me 
just how you loved him.” 

“It ’ud be easier to tell you how the thunder banks up 
in summer and bursts over us,” Hesther replied with a 
headshake, while her hand responded with sympathetic 

pressure to the clasp of the girl s. 

She gazed into the earnest face that so reminded her of 
the father who had been slain so many years before, and 
the pretty, fair-haired woman who had borne this foster 
child of hers. She was wondering at the girl’s sudden 
passion of interest in her love for the dead man who 


202 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


had given her such a wealth of simple happiness. It was 
a new phase, and it meant something. And she wondered 
what the meaning was. 

“No, Kid/’ she went on. “I don’t reckon if I talked 
from now to Kingdom Come I could ever tell you the 
thing you’re asking. He was my man, just all of him. 
Could you feel so that any feller could tell you to do the 
craziest thing and you’d want to get busy right away 
doing it? Could you feel so that a feller’s frown was 
better than the whole world’s smile? Could you feel 
you’d rather have one man call you a crazy fool, and beat 
you over the head with a club, than a hundred swell fellers 
bowing an’ scraping to hand you a good time? If you 
could feel all that foolish stuff you’d know something 
how I loved my Jim. He was mine, Kid,” she went 
on squeezing the girl’s plump hand in her thin, strong 
fingers. “He was mine from the roof of his head to 
the soles of his caribou moccasins, and life with him was 
full of sunshine, even when the night of winter shut 
down. And he handed me all these ‘God’s blessings’ 
that aren’t never content but that I’m doing an’ making 
for them all the time. My, but I’d be glad to have you 
feel all those things.” 

The girl nodded. Her eyes were deeply contemplative. 
She was not looking at the woman beside her but gazing 
abstractedly into space. 

“I—I think I could feel all that,” she said after awhile. 
“I—I think I could feel so a man could beat me to death 
if he wanted to. But-” 

She broke off. Then her gaze came back to the brown 
eyes beside her, and a sort of ecstatic smile lit her eyes 
and transformed her with its radiance. 

“But he’d have to be a great feller, with the courage of 
a fighter. He’d have to be a man who ordered other 



THE DREAM HILL 


203 


folks around, a man who knew no fear. A man who’d 
help a friend with his last dollar or kill the enemy who 
hurt him. Yes,” she went on dreamily, “and he’d have 
grey eyes, and a strong face that wasn’t maybe too good- 
looking, and dark hair, and shoulders like a bull caribou, 
and-” 

“Be like to some feller you got a look at down in 
Placer?” 

Hesther had returned to her work, and drew a deep 
breath of expectancy. But the girl ignored the challenge. 
She turned suddenly and spoke with feverish eagerness. 

“You felt that way, Mum, for your Jim?” she 
demanded. “That’s the way all gals feel when they want 
—want to marry someone? Maybe the Eskimo squaws 
feel that way, too? Just every woman? Is that so?” 

Hesther smiled and nodded. 

“Sure. Tell me about him.” 

The older woman’s philosophy had been swallowed up 
by the irresistible emotions of her sex. She wanted to 
hear the story of this child’s tender romance. She had 
made up her mind there was a romance deeply hidden 
within her innocent heart, and that it had taken place in 
that great gold city the girl had visited with Usak. She 
was hungering for the story of it as every real woman 
hungers for the love story of another, after having passed 
a similar milestone in her own life. She was thrilled, and 
her calm veins were afire with the recrudescence of her 
youth. 

But the Kid suddenly came out of her dreaming, and 
smilingly shook her head in a fashion that flooded the 
other with disappointment. 

“No, Mum,” she said. “There wasn’t a feller in Placer 
made me feel that way. Not one. I—I was just 
thinking. That’s all.” 



204 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


“And it makes you want to quit and get around where 
life’s real life?” Hesther cried incredulously. “An’ 
where there’s folks and parties, and marrying, and you 
can have a place in it all?” 

Again the girl shook her head. This time all smiling 
had passed. Her lips were no longer happily parted. 
And the corners of her mouth were slightly depressed. 

“No, dear,” she said, with a decision which the other 
felt had cost her an effort. “I don’t feel like quitting. 
I don’t want to quit. Ever! I want to stay right here, 
till—till—I want to stay here always with you, and the 
kids, and Usak. But sense says I can’t. None of us can. 
We’ve played our game to the limit, an’ I guess the cards 
are dead against us. We must go next year for—the 
sake of those babies your Jim handed to you. I don’t 
just know all it means. I don’t just see what we’re to 
do to earn our food. But we’ll have to make the break, 
and take what the good God hands—Hello!” 

The girl broke off. Her final exclamation came at the 
sight of a little procession which hurried round the angle 
of the building. It was headed by Mary Justicia and the 
adventurous Perse. Alg was behind carrying Jane Con¬ 
stance in his sturdy arms, while Gladys Anne clung to him 
yielding him her moral support. 

It was a subdued procession, and the Kid and the 
mother looked for the thing which had affected them so 
seriously. Their attention became promptly fixed on the 
dripping bundle of humanity in the elder boy’s arms. 
An explanation was instantly forthcoming in the coolest 
phraseology. 

“Darn crazy little buzzock reckoned to drown herself,” 
the boy said with a grin. “Hadn’t no more sense than 
to fall off’n the driftwood pile into six foot of water. 
We shaken most of it out of her.” 


THE DREAM HILL 


205 


The mother was on her feet in a moment, and the 
child, despite her liquid condition, was snatched to her 
eager bosom. And in her anxiety everything else was 
completely forgotten. 

“You pore little bit,” she cried solicitously as she 
hugged the moist bundle in her arms. Then she turned 
on the gawking youth with which she was surrounded. 
She glanced swiftly over the faces grinning up at her, 
and punctuated her survey with a sweeping condem¬ 
nation. 

“You bunch o’ hoodlams,” she cried. “The good God 
gave you the image of Hisself, did He? Well, I guess 
He must ha’ forgot the mush you need to think with. 
Be off with you. The whole bunch. You, Mary Justicia, 
stay around an’ help me scrape the pore mite clean. The 
rest of you get out o’ my sight. I don’t feel like looking 
at any of you again—ever.” 

She vanished into the house, a diminutive figure of 
righteous indignation, and the Kid was left to the eager, 
laughing explanations of the unimpressed culprits. 


The kyak darted down the river on a stream that made 
its progress something like the flight of an arrow. Its 
great length and narrow width left it a crazy enough 
vessel to handle, but the Kid had been born and bred to 
its manipulation, and she played with it as she chose 
without concern for its crankiness. Her gun lay in the 
bottom of the hide-built craft, for she was speeding down 
towards the marshes in quest of water-fowl. 

With the rapid passing of the shortening northern day 
she knew she would find the marsh alive with duck. 
Game was plentiful just now. In another few weeks the 
approach of winter would drive the migratory fowl south, 


206 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


where the waters remained open and winter feed was to 
be had in abundance. The girl was pot-hunting, and the 
full stocking of the farm larder was an important duty 
in her routine of life. 

Silently, almost ghostlike, the dip of her paddle giving 
out no sound, she sped on over the shining waters be¬ 
tween high, lichen-grown banks, that were mostly rock- 
bound and almost completely sterile. It was a wild, 
broken stretch of country, without any of the vegetation 
which was the inspiration of the setting of the farm. It 
was without any graciousness, from the southern hills to 
the northern limits containing the shallow valley. But 
even so, to this girl, who had known the Caribou Valley 
all her young life, there was intense attraction in every 
detail of its familiar uncouthness. 

Quite abruptly she passed beyond the undulating, rock- 
bound stretch, and shot into the jaws of a short but nar¬ 
row canyon. For no apparent reason the country about 
her suddenly reared itself into a tumbled sea of low, 
broken hills that darkly overshadowed the passage which 
the river had eaten through them. The gleaming waters 
had lost their vivid, dancing light and assumed an almost 
inky blackness. Their speed had increased, and they 
frothed and churned as they beat against the facets of 
the encompassing walls, as though in anger at a resistance 
they had never been able to overcome. 

The girl was gazing ahead at the far opening, where the 
hills gave way to the wide muskeg which was her goal. 
It was at the sort of giant gateway which was formed 
by two sheer sentry rocks standing guard on either side 
of the river, overshadowing, frowning, lofty, windswept 
and bare. 

A girlish impulse urged her. These two barren crests 
were old-time friends of her childhood. The leaning 


THE DREAM HILL 


207 


summit of the hill on the left bank was the dream place 
of childish fancy. It was always windswept, even on the 
calmest day. It was beyond the reach of the mosquitoes 
and flies abounding on the river. It was free and open to 
the sunlight, which was getting shorter now with every 
passing day. And, somehow, an hour passed on its 
chilly summit never failed to inspire her heart with 
feelings freed from the oppressive weight of the cares of 
her life below. 

Yes. She would leave the feeding fowl to their evening 
meal. For the present there was no shortage in the farm 
larder. The marshes could wait till to-morrow. For the 
moment she felt deeply in need of that consolation she 
never failed to find in this old friend of her earlier years. 
She would pass an hour with it. She would confide to it 
the story of those feelings and desires, which, with every 
passing month, were absorbing her more and more deeply. 
For she was restless, disturbed. As Hesther had sug¬ 
gested, the dawning womanhood in her was crying out. 

Oh, yes. She understood now. The life of the farm 
was no longer the satisfying thing it had always been. 
Something was amiss with her. A great, unrecognised 
longing had been urgent in her for months past. And a 
glimmer of its meaning had come to her while listening 
to Hesther’s endeavour to show her the thing which her 
own love for her dead husband had been. 

Suddenly she dipped her paddle and held it. Instantly 
her light vessel swung about and headed up stream. 
Slowly, laboriously it nosed in against the stream and 
glided gently up to the familiar landing place. 

Leaping ashore, the Kid stooped and grasped the 
central struts of her craft. Then she lifted it bodily out 
of the water, and set it in safety on the broad strand. 


208 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


The Kid was squatting trail fashion with her back 
thrust against the smooth-worn, almost polished sides of a 
great boulder. The chill wind was beating against her 
rounded cheeks. There were moments when its nipping 
blast brought tears to her eyes. And her soft, fair hair 
streamed from under her cap in response to its rough 
caresses. 

Her eyrie was set more than a hundred feet above the 
rest of the world about her. Her gaze was free to roam 
the length and breadth of the valley below her. There 
was nothing whatsoever but the limit of vision to deny 
her. Here she could feast herself upon the world she 
had learned to love, with fancy free to riot as it listed. 

It was a wonderful panorama for all its harshness. 
Away to the north lay endless miles of barren, low hills 
and shallow valleys which lost themselves in the far-off 
purple of falling daylight. To the south of her it was 
the same, except that the dying sun of summer lolled 
heavily on the horizon, gleaming, blinding in its last 
passion. To the east lay the farm and the corrals that 
claimed all her working hours, and beyond that was the 
purple of distance enshrouding lank, sparse, woodland 
bluffs whose stunted, windswept tops cut sharp drawn 
lines against the far-off shadows. It was all wide flung, 
and harsh, and infinitely small viewed from her lofty 
crow’s-nest. And even the river, immediately below, was 
no better than a silver ribbon dropped by some careless 
hand on a carpet that was drab, and worn, and utterly 
without beauty. 

But none of these claimed her now. The girl’s gaze 
was to the westward. Even the hour was forgotten, and 
the spread of cold grey cloud which the biting wind was 
driving down upon the world out of the fierce north-east. 
Her gaze was on the dark line beyond which flowed the 


THE DREAM HILL 


209 


mighty Hekor, where it beat the meeting waters of the 
two rivers into a cauldron of boiling rapids. It was on 
the great bluff of woodland which had sheltered her 
original home, and beyond which lay the deserted Fort, 
which had been the pulsing heart making life possible for 
them all. And she was thinking, thinking of a man with 
“grey eyes, and a strong face that wasn’t too good- 
looking, and dark hair, and shoulders like a bull caribou.” 

He had said he would return, this man who called him¬ 
self Bill Wilder. He and his red-headed companion and 
the grey hard-bitten creature he called Chilcoot. They had 
gone out into the far North. The great, wide-open 
North with its treacherous smiling summer masking a 
merciless wintry heart. Would he return? Would he 
come again down the river? Would he forget, and pass 
right on down to the city which contained his home? 
She wondered. And, with each possibility that presented 
itself, a cold constriction seemed to grip her strong 
young heart. 

How long had he said? She remembered. She had 
never forgotten. She could never forget. The man’s 
smiling eyes had haunted her ever since the first moment 
they had gazed so earnestly, so kindly into hers. Oh, she 
knew nothing of whence he came or whither he was 
bound. She knew nothing of the man he might be. 
These things concerned her not at all. She had judged 
him in the first moments of her meeting with him nearly 
two years ago, and from the first words he had spoken 
in his easy way, and her judgment had been of a splendid 
manhood that harmonised with the deep woman instinct, 
which, for good or ill, is the final tribunal of a woman’s 
life. 

He had been the ideal of everything that appealed to 
her in manhood. She had learned her simple under- 


14 


210 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


standing of life amongst the rough men of the northern 
trail. Here was a man recklessly plunging into the far- 
off world, ready to face and battle with every chance with 
which that world was crowded. He was fearless. Yes. 
He was all she looked for in courage. He was a leader, a 
strong, determined leader of men no less brave and 
adventurous than himself. And as for the rest it was all 
there. She had seen for herself. A great stature, a 
strong man’s face. And eyes that calmly shone with 
honesty and kindliness. 

She sighed. Would he return? The hands about her 
knees broke apart. They fell from about her knees, and 
she stirred, and twisted her body round so that she sat 
with one hand on the bare rock supporting it. She was 
facing round to the west. 

Why, why did she so long for his return? He had 
said he would return in two years. Two years? That 
would not be up till next opening. The winter ahead 
suddenly looked to be an interminable period of waiting. 
Winter. And anything might happen to him in—winter. 
Suddenly she became weakly anxious for his safety. She 
knew the dangers. She knew the conditions of the 
country into which he had gone. The Euralians. The 
desperate storms. The— But she dismissed her fears. 
She remembered the man’s equipment. But more than 
all she remembered his confident, commanding eyes. No. 
Nothing could harm him. Nothing. Nothing. But 
would he remember. Would he-? 

She started. Suddenly she sprang to her feet with the 
easy agility of one of the young deer it was her work to 
handle. And she stood against the sweeping breeze, at 
the very edge of the ledge, silhouetted against the back¬ 
ground of a dying sun. 

The biting wind swept her hair across her eyes. She 



THE DREAM HILL 


211 


raised a brown hand and thrust it aside and held its mass 
firmly, while she stared out wide-eyed in amazement. 
Then she raised the other hand, pointing', a thrill of 
excitement, and gladness, and hope, surging through her 
heart. And as she stood, utterly unconscious of the thing 
she did, words sprang to her lips and she counted aloud. 

“One! Two! Three! Yes. Five large and two 
small!” 

And with each numeral she uttered, her pointing hand 
moved from one tiny distant object on the river to 
another. 

For awhile she remained spellbound by the vision. She 
remembered. Oh, yes. There could be no mistake. Five 
large canoes and two smaller. That had been the extent 
of Bill Wilder’s outfit as she had first discovered it. It 
was he. He was coming up the river. He had returned. 
And—he had returned sooner than he promised. 

A wild tumult of feeling consumed her as she stared 
at the distant procession of boats. Then, in a moment, 
a surge of colour swept up into her cheeks, and a fierce 
panic of shame robbed her of all her delight. She turned; 
tearing herself from the glad sight, and fled headlong to 
her kyak below. 


CHAPTER VIII 


BILL WILDER RE-APPEARS 

Hesther was perturbed, yet she was engaged on the task 
of all tasks which appealed to her in her life’s routine. 

It was wash-day. She was standing over a boiler of 
steaming water, frothing with soap suds and full of a 
laundry made up of the rainbow hues of a Joseph’s coat. 
The kitchen was reeking with steam. It was also littered 
with piles of well-wrung garments awaiting the services 
of Mary Justicia for transfer to the drying ground out¬ 
side. The swarming flies were more than usually sticky 
in the humid atmosphere, and the prevailing confusion 
in the rough living room was as splendid as the most 
ardent housewife could have desired on such an occasion. 

Perturbation with Hesther could only have one source. 
Something must be amiss with one of the large family 
for which she held herself responsible. Nothing else 
could have disturbed her equanimity. She was com¬ 
pletely single-minded and even in her emotions. Beyond 
the four walls of her house she had no concern. She 
was utterly abandoned to the six young lives entrusted to 
her efforts by her dead husband, and the girl who, from 
her earliest infancy, had been called “the Kid.” 

It was of the Kid she was thinking now. Their talk of 
the day before had filled her with disquiet. The girl had 
denied so much, and yet, to the patient mother-woman, 
there had been signs that only afforded one interpretation. 


212 


BILL WILDER RE-APPEARS 


213 


And now she was asking herself all the many questions 
which her woman’s heart instinctively prompted. Who 
was the man? Where was the man? When had the 
Kid encountered the man ? What was he like ? How 
far had this thing gone that it had stirred the child to 
a fever of excited interest in another woman’s love for 
her man? She was mystified beyond words. None but 
trailmen and trappers had come near them throughout 
the years. They were mostly half-breeds and Eskimos, 
and one or two poor whites who thought of nothing but 
the mean living they were able to scratch out of this 
Euralian-ridden territory. 

No. It was none of these. Of that she was convinced. 
And for all the girl’s denial her mind persistently turned 
to Placer. There had been a definite change in the Kid, 
she fancied, since her return from the gold city. A 
change which her keen anxiety of the moment forthwith 
exaggerated. She felt that she must take Usak into her 
confidence. Yes. When he returned from his summer 
trip with Clarence, trading the trail-broken deer, she 
would question him. She warned herself that it was 
imperative for all it seemed like disloyalty, and distrust 
of the Kid’s denial. Yes. That was the only course for 
her. 

She glanced up from her steaming tub where her busy 
hands were rubbing and squeezing the highly coloured 
garments in the suds. Mary Justicia had appeared in the 
doorway and was standing outlined foggily in the steam. 

“Those,” Hesther said, indicating the litter on the 
rough-boarded table. “It’s a big wash, child,” she 
observed contentedly, “but I guess we’ll get through in 
time for dinner. You see we got all Janey’s stuff, an’ 
it’s that stained with mud an’ the like it makes you wonder 
the sort o’ muck that comes down the river.” 


214 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


Mary Justicia seized on the garments. Then she 
paused and turned with her arms full. 

“The kids are cornin’ right along up from the river, 
Mum,” she declared, dismissing her mother’s remarks 
under an interest much more to her liking. “Guess 
they’re coming along up on the run, an’ Alg’s with ’em. 
You wouldn’t say Perse had located something, or—or 
got hurt? I didn’t just see him cornin’ along with the 
bunch.” 

The mother wiped the suds from her hands and dried 
them on her overall. 

“It’s an hour an’ more to food,” she said, with a sharp 
inquiry in her tone and look. “Wot’s got ’em heatin’ it 
to home now ? Alg should be along up at the corrals with 
the Kid.” 

She hurried to the door and looked out. Sure enough 
there was a tailing procession of children racing for the 
house. But all four of them were there. Perse was run¬ 
ning last, behind the toddling figure of Jane Constance. 

• • • • « • • 

It was a breathless crew that broke into the steaming 
kitchen. From the sixteen-year-old Alg down to the 
round, grubby-faced Janey, with her mass of curling 
brown hair and dark eyes, excitement was a-riot, and 
they hurled their amazing news at the busy mother in a 
chorus that set her flourishing a half-wrung garment at 
them in protest. 

“Say, quit it, all of you!” she cried. “I haven’t ears 
all over my head if you think I have. Outfit? What 
outfit? Here, quit right away, the whole bunch. An’ 
you Alg, tell your crazy yarn while I get right on with 
the wash. You ‘shoo’ the others right out into the open, 
Mary Justicia, while Alg hands me his fairy tale. They’ll 
be takin’ pneumonia in this steam else.” 


BILL WILDER RE-APPEARS 


215 


The elder girl obediently “shooed” the rest of the 
children from the room, and stood guard in the doorway 
lest the avalanche returned. But she was all eyes and 
ears for Alg who was simply bursting with his astonishing 
news. 

“It’s an outfit come right up the river,” he began at 
once, his eyes alight and dilating with an excitement 
he could scarcely contain sufficiently to leave him 
coherent. “It’s a swell outfit of white folk, ever so many 
of ’em. I guess they must ha’ come through in the 
night an’ passed right up to the gravel flats along up 
beyond the corrals. Guess they pitched camp three miles 
up, an’ they got five big canoes, an’ all sorts of camp 
stuff. Ther’s a feller with bright red hair, an’ two fellers 
who’re sort of bosses. The rest are just river folk, an’ 
the like. It was Perse located ’em, an’ I guess he come 
along and tell us, and we went right up, an’-” 

“Did you tell the Kid?” 

Hesther’s sharp demand was the natural impulse which 
the boy’s news stirred in her. The arrival of a strange 
outfit of white folk on the river was a matter of serious 
enough importance in their lives, but it was outside her 
province. Her real concern was for her washing and 
all that that implied. The Kid, in the absence of Usak, 
was her resource in such a situation. The boy shook his 
rough head. 

“I didn’t see her around as we came along back,” he 
said, “an’ I didn’t wait to chase her up. I guessed I 
best come along an’ tell you first.” 

The mother nodded and wrung and rinsed a flannel 
garment as though nothing else in the world mattered. 
She was thinking as hard as a mind concentrated upon 
her manual effort would permit. And somehow the 
result was sufficiently negative to leave her without any 



216 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


inspiration beyond that the Kid should be told at once so 
that there should be no delay in the responsibility of the 
newly developed position finding the proper person to 
deal with it. 

“Beat it right up to the corrals,” she said at last, “an’ 
locate the Kid, and hand her your yarn, son.” Then the 
working of her simple mind eased to its normal condition. 
“An’ when you done that come right back to home, an* 
don’t get running around pecking at them folks. We 
don’t know who they are. Maybe they’re a bum outfit 
o’ low down whites chasing after no good. You’re mostly 
a grown feller, Alg, an’ you got women-folk around. I 
guess it’s right up to you, an’ me, an’ the Kid, with Usak 
away, an’ with strangers around. Now you get right 
along an’ beat it. Food’ll be about ready against you 
get along back. An’ I’ll finish the wash after. Ho, 
Mary, here’s another bunch to set out dry in’.” 

But Hesther was infinitely disturbed. Her perturba¬ 
tion on the Kid’s account had been something very much 
less disturbing than this sudden and totally unlooked for 
development. Strangers! White strangers! Strangers 
on their river! What had they come for? And, more 
than all, what manner of white folk were they? The 
woman in her had taken alarm, for all she gave no sign. 
There was the Kid and Mary. They were alone, with¬ 
out any sort of help except Alg and the two or three 
half-breed Eskimo working about the farm. At that mo¬ 
ment she would have given all she possessed to have had 
Usak on hand to look to for the protection she desired. 

It was curious. For years she had lived under the 
threat of the Euralian marauders who had passed through 
the country like a devastating pestilence. They were 
foreigners. They were savages. Their crimes were 
wanton in their cruelty. Yet the dread of them failed to 


BILL WILDER RE-APPEARS 


217 


quicken her sturdy pulse by a single beat. Now, how¬ 
ever, at the coming of these men of her own race, it was 
utterly different. A sort of stupefied panic suddenly 
descended upon her, and her wash day had ceased to 
interest her. She removed the boiler from her cook- 
stove, and prepared for the mid-day meal. 

Mary Justicia had abandoned her post at the doorway. 
She had cleared the table of the litter of washing and was 
setting the meal ready while her mother gave herself up 
to the work at the cookstove, when a small head was 
thrust in at the doorway. 

“Mum 1” 

There was a note of suppressed excitement in Perse’s 
eager summons. 

Hesther turned from the stove on the instant. 

“You be off with you!” she cried. “Food won’t 
be-” 

“Tain’t food, Mum,” retorted the boy urgently, as he 
gazed into the steam-filled room. “It’s a feller, a great 
big feller, bigger than Usak, cornin’ right along. What’ll 
I do? Tain’t any use tryin’ to ‘shoo’ him. He’s too big 
fer that. Guess it wouldn’t be any use Mary ‘shooin’ ’ 
him either. I-” 

Hesther ran to the doorway. She stood framed in it, 
her thin, bare arms folded across her spare bosom. It 
was an attitude that might have suggested defiance. But 
at that moment there was only a deepening panic surg¬ 
ing in her mother heart. 

And standing there she beheld the approach of a man 
of unusual stature. He was clad in trail-stained, hard 
clothing that by no means helped his appearance. His 
buckskin coat was open, and under it was revealed a plain 
cotton shirt that gaped wide at the neck, about which was 
knotted a coloured scarf. His dark hair hung loose 




218 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


below his low-pressed cap. But these things passed un¬ 
noticed. For the woman was concerned only with the 
face of the man, and the thing she was trying to read 
there. As he came up he removed his cap and stood 
bareheaded before her. And he smiled down into her 
troubled, inquiring face out of a pair of grey eyes that 
never wavered for a moment. 

“I guessed I’d best come right along down at once, 
mam,” he said in easy, pleasant tones. “We pulled in 
up the river last night And seeing things are kind of 
lonesome about here, and we’re a biggish outfit of 
strangers such as maybe you weren’t guessing to see 
about, I felt it might get you worried. Well, I just want 
to make it so you don’t feel that way. We’re a gold 
outfit figgering to prospect this river, and I’m running 
it. My name’s Bill Wilder. It won’t tell you a thing, 
I fancy. But I want to say right here that just so long 
as we’re around ther’s not a feller in my bunch that’s 
going to worry you or yours without getting a broken 
neck from me. That’s all I came along to pass you. 
You see, mam, it’s a queer country full of queer folk, 
and I sort of fancied making things easy for you.” 

The woman in Hesther was deeply stirred. The man’s 
whole attitude was one of simple respect and kindliness. 
There was no mistaking it, and her favourable judgment 
of him was as instantaneous and headlong as had been 
her panic of the moment before. It was the voice, the 
clear smiling eyes of this whiteman stranger that claimed 
her ready confidence. For she was a woman whose 
simplicity of heart dictated at all times. 

“Why, say, now, that’s real kind of you, sir,” she 
replied beaming with genuine relief. “It surely is a 
rough country for a lone woman with a bunch of God’s 
Blessings around her.” Then she moved back into the 


BILL WILDER RE-APPEARS 


219 


house with an air of removing the hurriedly set up 
defences of her home, and turned to Mary Justicia, while 
the other children gawked at the stranger. “You’ll set 
another platter, girl. I guess Mr. Wilder’ll take hash 
with us, if he ain’t scared to death eating with a bunch 
of kids with the manners of low-grade Injuns.” Then 
she smiled apologetically at the man with his powerful 
shoulders and great height. “You see, it’s wash-day 
with us, sir,” she went on, “an’ it ’ud take a wise feller 
to rec’nise our kitchen from a spring fog. But the ducks 
have been shot four days by the Kid, an’ I reckon they’ll 
eat as tender as Thanksgiving turkey. Will you step 
right in an’—welcome?” 

The cordiality of the little woman’s invitation was 
irresistible. But Wilder shook his head in partial denial. 
Her reference to “the Kid” had changed his original 
intention of complete refusal. 

“Mam, ” he said, “ordinarily I’d be mighty glad to 
take that food with you all. But I guess I need to get 
back to camp in awhile. You see, we only pulled in last 
night at sundown, and ther’s a deal needs fixing when 
you’re runnin’ a bunch of tough-skinned gold men. But 
I’d be glad to step in and yarn some if wash-day 
permits.” 


Wilder’s reputation amongst the men of his craft was 
that of scrupulous straight dealing and honesty for all 
he was an astute man of affairs in the business in which 
they trafficked. They knew him for a man who never 
needed to sign when his word was given. Beyond that 
they knew little of the real man. Amongst those whom 
he counted as friends there was an infinitely warmer side 


220 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


to the man. They saw the native simplicity and kindli¬ 
ness which he usually kept closely hidden under a harder 
surface. But, somehow, the real man was reserved for 
the eyes of such women as he encountered. His chivalry 
for the sex was imiate. It was no make-believe veneer. 
To him it mattered nothing if a woman were plain or 
beautiful, old or young. Even her morals had no power 
to influence his attitude. A woman, with all her faults 
and virtues, was just the most sacred creature that walked 
the earth. Good, bad, or in a category between the two, 
she left the mundane gods of daily life nothing compara¬ 
ble in their claim upon him. 

His feelings, however, reduced him to no extravagant 
display of sentiment towards women. On the contrary. 
He loved to regard them as creatures created for the 
beautifying of human life, companions on complete 
equality with man, except where the disability of sex was 
involved. It was in such circumstances he claimed man’s 
right to succour to the limit of his powers. 

Something of all this had stirred him at the sight of 
the brown-eyed, work-worn woman with her ‘'God’s 
Blessings,” as she called them, about her. But it had had 
nothing to do with the inspiration of his prompt visit to 
the homestead he had discovered ten miles up from the 
mouth of the Caribou River. He had contemplated this 
visit all the way down the long journey on the Hekor 
River. He had visualized the existence of some such 
home, and had determined to locate it. And the purpose 
had remained in his mind ever since that day, two summers 
ago, when the girl who was called “the Kid” had flung 
him her parting invitation. Even now, as he bulked so 
hugely in the one real chair the homestead afforded, and 
which was the rest place for Hesther when her many 
labours permitted, he saw again in fancy the girl’s frankly 


BILL WILDER RE-APPEARS 


221 


smiling blue eyes, full of delight and pride at the masterly 
fashion in which she had piloted the great outfit up the 
narrow channel of the Hekor rapids. Her pretty weather- 
tanned face had lived witji him every day of his long 
sojourn in the desolate wastes farther north, and he had 
longed for the time when he could run her to earth in 
that home which she had told him lay ten miles from the 
mouth of the Caribou River. 

At last it had come. And in how strange a fashion. 
It almost looked as though Fate had taken a hand in 
bringing about the thing he desired. It was not only his 
desire to look again upon the sun-browned face of the 
girl who had so surely leapt into his heart that had 
brought him to the Caribou River. It was the diagram 
map, so carefully drawn by the dead Marty Le Gros* 
hand, which the terrified little Japanese woman had thrust 
upon him in the hope of saving her blinded husband. 
The great gold “strike” of the dead missionary was on the 
Caribou River, and he held the detailed key of it. 

He was thinking of the Kid now as he listened to the 
ripple of talk wdiich flowed so naturally from Hesther’s 
lips as she stood over the savoury stew on the cook- 
stove. 

“It makes me want to laff,” she said, “you folks 
reckoning to try out the Caribou for gold. You’re jest 
like my Perse, only you don’t skid out the seat of your 
pants chasing the stuff. Say, that kid—he’s nigh thirteen 
years—has the gold bug dead right, an’ he reckons to 
locate it around this valley. I’d say you couldn’t beat it, 
only you’re reckoning that way, too. Gold ? Gee! Gold 
on this mud an’ rock bottom? Why, you’ll need all the 
dynamite in the world to loosen up this territory, ’cept 
where it’s muskeg, an’ then you’ll need a mighty long life 
line to hit bottom.” 


222 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


Bill nodded. 

“Guess you folks should know the valley, mam,” he 
admitted, with a smile of amusement in his eyes. 

Hesther turned about from her work. 

“You aren’t thinking that?” she said quickly. 

“No.” 

“Ah, that’s a man all through. You reckon ther’s gold 
on Caribou, and you’ll chase it to a finish. Say, my 
Perse ’ud just love you to death for that.” 

Wilder watched Mary Justicia moving silently around 
the room preparing the table. 

“Where did—Perse—get his notion from, mam?” 
Wilder inquired disarmingly. 

In a moment Hesther’s brown eyes became serious. 
There crept into them an abstracted far-off look. And in 
repose a curious sadness marked her expression. 

“Why, the Kid’s father. The missionary, Marty Le 
Gros, who was murdered by the Euralians nigh eighteen 
years back.” 

Wilder started. A flood of excitement hurled through 
his body. He almost sprang from the square, raw-hide 
seat of his chair. But he controlled himself with an 
effort and spoke with a calmness that betrayed nothing of 
his sudden emotion. 

“You said Perse was only thirteen,” he argued. 

“That’s so,” Hesther nodded, setting the tea-kettle to 
boil beside the stew. Then she turned about to the two 
children squatting on the doorstep. “That’s Perse,” she 
said, indicating the boy who was listening avidly to the 
talk. “He’s only heard of the yarn that the Kid’s pore 
father made a big ‘strike.’ I know he made it. Jim 
and me-—Jim’s my dead husband who used to run the 
Fur Valley Store at Fort Cupar—handled the chunks of 
yellow stuff he showed us. They were wonderful. Oh, 


BILL WILDER RE-APPEARS 


223 


yes, he made a big ‘strike'—somewhere. But I don’t guess 
it was on Caribou. We were to have known. He was 
going to hand us the yarn. But he didn’t. You see, 
they got after him, an’ murdered him. So no one ever 
knew. You see Perse hasn’t a notion beyond Caribou. 
So he reckons if ther’s gold anywhere in creation it must 
be on Caribou.” 

“He’s a wise kid.” 

Hesther laughed. 

“Because he thinks your way?” 

“Sure. But say, mam, I guess you’re waiting to serve 
out that food and I’m holding things up.” 

The woman shook her head. 

“The Kid ain’t down from the corrals yet. We don’t 
eat till she comes.” 

The man nodded and made no attempt to take his 
departure. 

“I see,” he said reflectively. Then he laughed. 

“Say, mam,” he went on with a gesture of deprecation, 
“you’ve got me guessing good. I’m just a gold man an’ 
not a highbrow logician or guesser of riddles. You’re 
here with your bunch of God’s Blessings, as you call these 
dandy kids of yours. You talk of corrals as if you were 
running a swell cattle ranch. You talk of the Kid’s father 
who was Marty Le Gros, a missionary, murdered by 
Euralians eighteen years ago. An’ you haven’t even 
spoke as if you had any sort of name yourself. Well, 
as I said I’m just a gold man chasing up a creek you 
don’t reckon to hold anything better than mud and rock, 
but I’m liable to be a neighbour of yours for something 
like a year at least. And if it isn’t putting you about 
I’d just love to sit and listen to anything you feel like 
handing out.” 

It was the way it was said. It was so frankly 


224 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


ingenuous and inviting. Hesther looked into the 
stranger’s grey eyes, and no question remained in her 
mind. So she laughed in response and shook her greying 
head. 

“Say, living on the edge of the Arctic has quite a way of 
cutting out the manners we’re brought up to,” she said at 
once. “I’m Mrs. McLeod, and my man, Jim, as I said, 
was factor at Fort Cupar. Well, he died.” 

For one thoughtful moment she glanced into the stew 
pot. Then she dipped some steaming beans from a 
boiler and emptied them into the stew. After that she 
turned again to the waiting man in the chair. 

“This is a reindeer farm. It’s a sort of crazy notion 
in a way, but it’s handed us a living ever since Marty Le 
Gros, who started it up, was murdered by the Euralian 
toughs. Will I hand you the story of that? Or maybe 
you’re heard it? Most folks in the North have.” 

Wilder nodded. 

“Don’t trouble to tell it, mam,” he said quickly. “It’s 
bad med’cine that I’ve heard all about. And it’s not 
likely to hand you comfort in the telling. So this was 
his farm?” 

“Sure it was. He started it reckoning to build it up 
for his little baby, Felice, who we call the Kid, and the 
Indian man, Usak, who was his servant, ran it for him. 
Well, after he was done up and his place was burnt out, 
Usak came along from here and found his little kiddie 
flung into the bluff to die, or get eaten by wolves and 
things. Usak was nigh crazy. But he claimed the Kid 
and raised her on this farm, which he went on building: 
for her. When the Kid was about twelve my man Jim 
took ill and died, and I came along right over from the 
store with my bits and my kiddies, and just live with 
’em. It helped me and mine, and it helped the Kid and 


BILL WILDER RE-APPEARS 


22 5 


Usak some. And that’s all ther’ is to it. I’m sort of 
foster-mother to the Kid. And we all scratch a living 
out of Usak’s trading the trail-broke caribou with such 
Eskimo as the Euralians have left within reach.” She 
laughed, shortly and without mirth. “It’s nothing much 
to tell, sir, but there it is, and you’re welcome to know 
it.” 

The woman’s brief outline contained the whole drama 
of the past eighteen years told without emphasis, almost 
as though it were a simple matter of everyday oc¬ 
currence. Years ago it might have been different, but 
now—why, now only the present seriously concerned her, 
and that was the preparation of food and the execution 
of those many duties which were demanded by the 
young lives who looked to her mothering. 

For some moments Wilder offered no comment. He 
was concerned, deeply concerned. This woman’s homely 
trust and courage affected him deeply. But more than 
all else was a superlative thankfulness that Providence, 
through George Raymes, had sent him on what had first 
looked to be a hopeless pursuit of something completely 
impossible of achievement. He remembered the Super¬ 
intendent’s final summing up of the work set for him 
to accomplish. 

“Does it get you?” he had asked, “there it is, a great 
gold discovery, somewhere up there on the Hekor, I 
suppose, and the mystery of this people filching our trade 
through a process of outrageous crime. Somewhere up 
there there’s a girl-child, white—she’d be about nineteen 
or twenty now—lost to the white world to which she 
belongs. But above all, from my point of view, there’s 
a problem. Who are these Euralians, and what becomes 
of the wealth of furs they steal?” 

The whole of the work was well-nigh completed. He 


15 


226 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


had completely satisfied himself on the problem of the 
Euralians. He had recovered the plans of Marty Le 
Gros’ gold “strike,” and it only remained for him to fol¬ 
low their directions to complete the re-discovery of the 
find itself. And now—-now he had at length discovered 
the “girl-child, white,” who, to his mind was heir to the 
things her dead father had left behind. 

Yes, the end of his task looked to be drawing near, but 
he could not resign himself to the fact. Somehow it 
seemed to him that he was only approaching the thresh¬ 
old. That the drama of the whole thing was still in 
being. That there were scenes yet to be depicted that 
would deeply involve him. There was the blind Japanese 
man and his panic-stricken woman. There was the 
terrible Usak whom he had yet to meet. Then there was 
>he Kid. 

The Kid. What was her real name? Felice. Yes. 
That was the name Mrs. McLeod had told him. Felice. 
It meant happiness. It was a good name. But the irony. 
Poor child. Raised by the terrible Usak. Fostered here 
on the barren lands of the North, without a hope beyond 
the hard living these poor folk were able to scrape with 
the crude, uncultured assistance of an Indian. The whole 
thing was appalling. He loved the Northland. But to 
be condemned to it without hope of better things left 
him wondering at the amazing courage which Felice and 
this gentle mother must possess. 

In that one brief moment headlong determination came 
to his assistance. It was not for nothing that Providence 
had directed his steps into this crude, desolate valley. 
No. And his heart warmed, and emotions stirred under 
the gladness of his inspiration. 

He eased himself in his chair and rose abruptly to his 
feet. 


BILL WILDER RE-APPEARS 


227 

“Mam,” he said, thrusting out a hard brown hand 
towards Hesther, “I want to thank you—I—” 

But the out-held hand dropped abruptly to his side, 
and he broke off in the midst of the thing he had to say. 
For Perse and Jane Constance had rolled themselves clear 
of the door-sill to admit their foster-sister. The Kid 
stood framed in the opening with the grey-noon daylight 
shining behind her: She was radiant in her mannish 
parka, and the buckskin trousers terminating in high 
moccasins reaching almost to her knees. Her eyes were 
alight and shining in their sunbrowned setting, and her 
fair hair had fallen from beneath her low-pressed cap. 
Health and beauty were in every contour of her vigorous 
young body, and in her smiling eyes as she gazed upon 
the plain, angular face of the man who had just risen 
from Hesther’s chair. But a curious shyness left her 
hesitating and something dismayed. 

For one instant the girl’s eyes encountered the man’s. 
Then she swiftly glanced at the older woman by the 
stove. And Hesther jumped at the cue she felt to be hers. 

“It’s Felice, who we all call the Kid,” she said for the 
man’s benefit. Then she turned to the girl. “This is 
Mr. Wilder, my dear—Mr. Bill Wilder.” 

The girl’s shyness passed in a quick smile that was 
like a sudden burst of sunshine. 

“I know, Mum, dear,” she cried. “I met him two 
summers ago on the river and passed him and his out¬ 
fit up through the rapids at the mouth of the river.” 
Then she crossed over to the man whose eyes were smil¬ 
ing in perfect content. “You’ve found our little shanty,” 
she said holding out a soft brown hand, “and I’m glad. 
You’re real welcome.” 

The frankness of her greeting was utterly without em¬ 
barrassment, and Wilder took the outstretched hand in 


228 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 



both of his and held it for a moment while he turned to 
the mother who was looking on in amazement. 

“She saved me a two days’ portage, mam,” he said, in 
explanation. “And I guess she’s the brightest jewel of 
a waterman I’ve seen in years.” 

“My!” Hesther’s exclamation was almost a gasp as she 
watched their hands fall apart. Then with the mildest 
shadow of reproach: “An’ you never told me, Kid, You 
never said a word.” 


CHAPTER IX 


THE GREAT SAVAGE 

Usak stood up from the camp fire that was more than 
welcome. He stood with his broad back to the shelter of 
low scrub to leeward of which the midday camp had been 
pitched, and gazed out over a wide expanse of barren, 
windswept country. The threat overhanging the grey 
world was very real. Winter was in the dense, ponder¬ 
ously moving clouds; it was in the bite of the northerly 
wind, which was persistent and found the weak spot in 
such human clothing as had not yet given place to the 
furs of winter. The light of noonday, too, was sadly 
dull. For the hidden sun had lost so much of its sum¬ 
mer power, and its range of daily progress had narrowed 
down to a line that was low on the horizon. 

But the savage was unconcerned for the outlook of the 
day. He was unconcerned for the sterile territory over 
which his long summer journey had carried him. The 
man’s whole being was focussed upon the needs of life. 
The needs of those who depended on him. The needs 
which were no less his own. And for once a sense of 
satisfaction, of ease, was all-pervading. His trade had 
been something more profitable than it had been for years, 
and he understood that the needs of the coming winter, 
and next year’s open season, looked like being comfort¬ 
ably provided for. Oh, yes, there was much labour ahead. 


230 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


His trade must be translated into the simple provisions 
which must ultimately be obtained in far-off Placer. He 
knew all that. But it left his staunch, fierce spirit un¬ 
afraid, The means of obtaining the things needed were 
in his hands. The rest was the simple battle with the 
winter elements which had no terrors for his unimagina¬ 
tive mind. 

It was the last lap of a journey of several months. 
Night would find him in the shelter of his own home, 
with the voices of the white children, who had become 
so much a part of his life, ringing in his ears. And be¬ 
fore he slept he knew that he would have witnessed the 
glad smile of welcome and satisfaction in the white girl 
who was as the sun, moon, and stars of his life. He 
would have told her of his good news, and together they 
would have examined and appraised the values with which 
he had returned from the far-off Eskimo camps which 
good fortune had flung into his path. 

So the grey world looked good. Even the naked un¬ 
dulations amongst which the ribbon-like river wound its 
way had lost something of their forbidding aspect. It 
was the world he knew, the world he had battled with 
all his manhood. His satisfaction had translated it. 

He stood for a moment or two, a figure of splendid 
manhood. His far-gazing eyes looked out with some¬ 
thing in them akin to that which looks out of the sailor- 
man’s eyes. They were searching, reposeful and steady 
with quiet Confidence. 

He turned at last at the sounds of movement at the 
fire, and, for a moment, he watched the white youth, who 
was his companion, as he collected the chattels out of 
which they had taken their midday meal. 

Then he moved quickly to the boy’s side and took the 
pan and camp kettle from his hands. And his actions 


THE GREAT SAVAGE 231 

were accompanied by a swift protest in a voice that rarely 
softened. 

“Him Injun work,” he said gruffly. And the manner 
of it left no doubt as to the definite understanding of their 
relations. It was the man’s fierce pride that his mission 
was to serve the white folk entrusted to his care. 

Clarence yielded, but his thin cheeks flushed. Then he 
laughed but without mirth. He was a strapping youth 
of unusual physique. At sixteen he was all the man his 
mother claimed for him, for somehow the hardship of 
the trail had eaten into his youthful character and robbed 
it of the boyhood his years should have made his. He 
was serious, completely serious, and his freckled face and 
brown eyes looked something weary of the labour thus 
early flung on him. 

“It’s most always that way, Usak,” he grumbled 
sharply. “Nothin’s my work you’ve got time to do.” 

The Indian made no reply. He moved quickly over to 
the three great caribou, standing ready for the trail, har¬ 
nessed to their long, trailing carryalls. They were fine, 
powerful bucks, long-trained to the work, and their 
widespreading, downy antlers, now in full growth and 
almost ready for their annual shedding, indicated their 
tally of years in the service of the northern trail. He 
bestowed the gear in its allotted place in the outfit and 
returned to the fire. 

For a few moments he held out his brown hands to 
the warming embers, squatting low on his haunches. 
Then he turned to the boy. His reply to the youth’s chal¬ 
lenge had been carefully considered. 

“What you mak him this word?” he said, in his harsh 
way. “You my white boss I lak him mak work for. It 
good. Oh, yes. Someday it come you grow big white 
man lak to the good boss, Marty. I know. Then you 


232 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


think ’em this dam Injun no good. Him mak white boy 
work for him. No good. I, whiteman, no work for In¬ 
jun man. Oh no.” His black eyes smiled, and his smile 
had no more softness in it than his frown. “I tell you,” 
he went on. “I think much big think. You mak big trail 
man bimeby. Bimeby Usak die dead. Maybe he get kill 
’em all up on winter trail. Who knows? Then he 
think much for him Kid. He think much for him white- 
mother, Hesther. Him say, Usak all dead. No matter. 
Him Clarence big fine trail man. Him mak good all 
thing Usak no more do. So Usak not care the big spirit 
tak him. So. Whiteman tell Injun all time work. It 
so. The good boss, Marty, speak so. Injun man no 
good, never.” 

Clarence turned quickly. He, too, was squatting over 
the welcome fire. A sharp retort was on his lips. He 
knew that the Indian was his master on the trail. He 
knew that the man was almost superhuman in his ability. 
He knew that the man’s desire was just as he said. But 
somehow the spirit in him refused to accept the other’s 
self-abnegation. Usak was his teacher, not his servant. 
And somehow he felt there was no right, no justice, for 
all the difference in colour, that this creature should so 
humble himself by reason of that absurd difference. 

But his lips closed again without a spoken word. He 
was held silent under the sway of the man’s powerful in¬ 
fluence. And so, as it was always, Usak had his way. 

After a moment the white youth accepted the position 
thrust on him. 

“We best pull out?” he said almost diffidently. 

The Indian nodded. Then his dark eyes smiled again, 
and his powerful hands rubbed themselves together over 
the luxurious warmth. 

“I wait for that,” he said quietly. “You my boss. My 


THE GREAT SAVAGE 


233 


good white boss. Same lak the white-girl, Kid, an’ the 
good Marty. Sure we pull out. We mak him the farm 
this night. It good. Much good.” 

He rose to his full height without effort, and turned at 
once to the waiting caribou. 


The night was dark but the burden of cloud had com¬ 
pletely dispersed. In its place was a velvet sky studded 
with myriads of starry jewels. Then away to the north 
the world was lit by a shadowy movement of northern 
lights. The night was typical of the fall of the northern 
year, chill, still, haunted, for all its perfect calm, by the 
fierce threat of the approach of winter. 

The ice-cold waters of the river lay behind the outfit. 
They had just crossed the shallow ford where the stream 
played boisterously over the boulder-strewn gravel bed. 
The labouring caribou were moving slowly up the gentle 
incline of lichen-covered foreshore. And the Indian on 
the lead, and the white youth trailing behind the last of 
the three beasts of burden, knew that in less than two 
hours fche last eight miles or so of their summer-long 
journey would be accomplished. 

Usak dropped back from his lead and permitted the 
caribou to pass him, and took his place beside the leg- 
weary youth. For some time they paced on in silence 
each absorbed in his own thought. 

It was a great looking forward for both. Both were 
contemplating that modest home they were approaching 
with feelings of something more than content. Clarence 
was yearning for the boisterous companionship of his 
brothers and sisters. The boy in him was crying out for 
the youth which the rigours of the northern trail had so 
long denied him. The ramshackle habitation which was 


234 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


his home possessed for him just now a splendour of com¬ 
fort, and ease, and delight such as only a starving imagin¬ 
ation could create about it. He was heart-sick and bodily 
weary with the interminable labour which the long trail 
demanded. 

With the Indian it was different. The joy of return 
for him had no relation to any weariness of body or spirit. 
He was contemplating only the good news which was 
carefully packed up on the primitive carryalls to which 
the caribou were harnessed, and the happiness he looked 
to see shining in the eyes of the whitewoman it was his 
mission to serve. 

It was out of this spirit of happy satisfaction he had 
abandoned his place at the head of the outfit, and dropped 
abreast of his white companion. For once in his life it 
was his desire to talk. And the inspiration came from 
the fulness of his savage heart. 

“The white mother much glad bimeby,” he said, in his 
curious halting fashion. 

Clarence nodded. He paused a moment and ran his 
strong hands down the legs of his buckskin nether gar¬ 
ments. The ice cold water of the river was partially 
squeezed out of them, but they remained saturated and 
chilly to the sturdy legs they covered. 

“Sure,” he said in brief agreement. 

“I think much,” Usak went on. “This winter trail. 
You mak him with me? Him Kid much good trail man. 
Plenty big white heart. She mak ’em good, yes. But she 
much soft white woman. Winter trail him hard. Placer 
long piece far. It no good. No. Clarence big trail man 
now. Snow. Ice. Storm. It nothing to big trail man 
Clarence—now. You come mak him with Usak? Then 
him Kid sleep good by the farm. All time much warm. 
All time much eat good. Yes?” 


THE GREAT SAVAGE 


235 


The boy looked up into the darkly shadowed face in the 
starlit night as they walked rapidly behind the great deer 
who were hurrying towards the homestead which they 
knew lay ahead. For all his weariness a great pride up¬ 
lifted the youth. The desperate winter trail. The long 
trail which hitherto had been steadily denied him by rea¬ 
son of his youth and lacking experience. Usak had bid 
him face it. The vanity of the youth flamed up in him. 

“You mean that, Usak?” he demanded sharply. And 
the Indian realised the tone. 

v “The winter trail for big man,” he said, subtly. 

“Yes.” 

Clarence drew a deep breath. Then after a moment he 
went on. And again the Indian recognised and approved 
the new tone that rang in his voice. 

“That goes, Usak,” he said. Then with sudden pas¬ 
sionate energy: “Fm no kid now,” he cried. “The winter 
trail I guess needs menfolk, not women or kids. I’m 
with you, sure. And I play my hand right through. Say, 
I go, but I go right. Ther’s goin’ to be no play. The 
work that's yours is yours. The work that's mine's mine. 
An’ I don’t let any feller do my work on the trail. Not 
even you. Does that go? Say it right here an' now.” 

The smile that changed the Indian’s expression so little 
was there under cover of the shadows of night. 

“Him go all time, sure. You big boss whiteman mak 
him trade by Placer. You say all time the thing we do. 
Oh, yes. That’s so. Usak—Sho!” 

The man broke off and his final exclamation had in it 
the curious hiss so indicative of a mind started profoundly 
and unpleasantly. He had halted on the summit of a high 
ground roller and stood pointing out ahead, somewhere 
on the opposite shore of the river where the twinkling 
lights of camp fires were burning brightly. He stood 


236 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


awhile in deep, concentrated contemplation, and his arm 
remained out-flung for his companion’s benefit 

Clarence, too, was gazing at the amazing sight of the 
twinkling, distant camp fires. 

The same thought was in the mind of each. But it 
was the uncompromising spirit of the savage that first 
gave it expression. 

“Euralian!” he said, in a tone of devastating hatred. 

Instantly the youth in the other cried out. 

“Mum! She’s alone with the kids!” 


Bill Wilder kicked the embers of the fire together. 
Then he leant over to the driftwood stack and clawed 
several sticks from the pile. He flung them on the fire 
and watched the stream of sparks fly upward on the still 
night air. 

It was the second night of camping on the gravel flats 
of the Caribou River, and the last brief hour before seek¬ 
ing the fur-lined bags in which the northern man is wont 
to sleep. Chilcoot and Wilder were squatting side by side, 
Indian fashion, over the camp fire burning adjacent to 
the tent they shared with the Irishman. And the latter 
faced them beyond the fire, sprawled on the ground baked 
hard by the now departed summer heat. 

Talk had died out. These men rarely wasted words. 
They had long since developed the silent habit which the 
northern solitudes so surely breed. But even so, for 
once there was a sense of restraint in their silent com¬ 
panionship. It was a restraint which arose from a sense 
of grievance on the part of both Chilcoot and the Irish¬ 
man. And it had developed from the moment of quitting 
the mysterious habitation in the western hills. 


THE GREAT SAVAGE 


237 


The facts were simple enough from their point of view. 
Both the Irishman and Chilcoot had been left in complete 
ignorance of their leader’s adventures during his long 
night vigil in the deserted house. He had returned to 
them only to order a hurried departure, and had definitely 
avoided explanations in response to their eager inquiries 
by evasive generalisations. 

“I just don’t get the meaning of anything, anyway,” he 
had declared, with a shake of the head. “Ther’s some 
queer secret to that shanty the folks who own it don’t 
reckon to hand out. If we’d the time to pass on up the 
creek maybe we’d locate the meaning of things. But we 
haven’t and seemingly that darn house is empty, and 
there isn’t a thing to it to tell us anything. No,” he said, 
“I’ve passed a long night in it and taken chances I don’t 
usually reckon to take, and I’ve quit it feeling like a feller 
who’s got through with a nightmare, an’ wonders what 
in hell he’s eaten to give it him. I’m sick, to death chas¬ 
ing ghosts, and mean to quit right here. We’ll just need 
to report to our superiors,” he smiled, “an’ leave ’em to 
investigate. Meanwhile we’ll get right on after the stuff 
which seems to me to lie in one direction, and that’s the 
location where the dead missioner worked around. We’ll 
beat it down to the Caribou River for a last fling, and 
after that Placer’s the best thing I know.” 

Chilcoot who understood his friend through long years 
of experience and association was by no means deceived. 
But his loyalty was the strongest part of him. He read 
behind the man’s words. He saw and appreciated the 
suggestion of excitement lying at the back of Wilder’s 
smiling eyes, and understood that the claimed unproduc¬ 
tiveness of the night’s vigil was sheer subterfuge. Fur¬ 
thermore he realised that the hurriedly ordered departure 
had been inspired by the events of the night. But he at- 


238 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


tempted no further question. And even aided his friend 
in denying the torrent of questioning which the Irish¬ 
man did not scruple to pour out. 

Mike’s reminders of the obvious oil and coal wealth 
of the black, mysterious hills, and the queer soil of the 
whole region, left Wilder unmoved. He agreed simply. 
But he dismissed the whole proposition as being outside 
anything but the range of their natural curiosity. He re¬ 
minded the persistent creature that the territory was Alas¬ 
kan, and they were for the time being debarred from 
further investigation through being enrolled officers of 
the Canadian Police. 

So he had had his way and the eastward journey was 
embarked upon. And as the waters of the oily creek 
passed away behind them, and the queer Fire Hills 
dropped back into the distance he hugged his secrets of 
the night to himself for the purpose of using them in the 
fashion he had already designed. Thus his companions 
were left puzzled and dissatisfied. 

All the way down the great waterway of the Hekor, 
Wilder had pondered the position in which he found him¬ 
self and the events which had led up to it. The figures 
of the blinded Japanese and his little wife haunted him. 
Then there was that carefully detailed chart which showed 
the locality of the dead missionary’s discovery to be on 
the Caribou River. And the thought of the Caribou had 
brought again into the forefront of his vision the memory 
of the fair young white girl who had passed him up the 
rapids which churned about its mouth, and with her part¬ 
ing farewell, had flung her invitation at him to that 
home which was ten miles up from the junction of the 
two rivers. 

The memory of the Kid had been with him ever since 
he had first gazed down into her wonderful blue eyes, and 


THE GREAT SAVAGE 


239 


had realised the perfect rounded figure of her womanhood 
under her mannish garb. He had always remembered 
those peeping golden strands of hair, which, despite her 
best effort to conceal them, never failed to escape from 
under the fur cap which was so closely drawn down over 
her shapely head. Then her wonderful skill on the water, 
her confidence and her pride in her achievement. He 
needed nothing beyond those things. The girl had held 
him fascinated. She had set all the youth in him afire. 
And now—now the wonder of it. The chances of those 
remote hills had sent him racing down towards her 
home full of a dream that surged through his senses 
with all the pristine fire of his hitherto unstirred man¬ 
hood. 

He was thinking of her now. He was thinking of his 
visit to her home that very noonday, the first of his arrival 
upon the river. As he sat over the fire silently contem¬ 
plating the depth of its ruddy heart with calm unsmiling 
eyes, a passionate desire was stirring within him. Since 
the moment of return to his camp on the gravel flats, with 
the picture of that happy, unkempt home full of sturdy 
young life haunting him, he had been concerned only 
for the sweet, blue, smiling eyes of the girl of the 
northern wild. 

He had heard the story of the courageous mother. He 
had heard the girl’s story from her own pretty lips as they 
had walked to the bank of the river where he had left his 
canoe moored. And he had been filled with only the 
greater admiration for the simple strength and courage 
with which these devoted souls had embarked upon their 
tremendous struggle for existence. 

At last he knocked out his charred pipe and thrust it 
away into a pocket. Again his hands were outspread to 
the blaze, but now his eyes were directed to the red- 


240 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


headed creature beyond the fire. Wilder suddenly cleared 
his throat. He began to speak, addressing himself to 
the Irishman. And Chilcoot looked round from his con¬ 
templation of the fire. 

“You boys best listen awhile while I make a talk.” 
Wilder’s manner was quiet enough, but there was that 
in his tone which impressed his companions. “You’ve 
maybe both got a grouch on me. And I’ll admit I’d feel 
the same if I were you. You’re both of you guessing 
all sorts of bad med’cine about that business back there 
in the hills. You’re reckoning I got visions I haven’t 
figured to pass on to you. Well, I sort of feel like clear¬ 
ing things up some—I mean that old grouch.” 

His eyes began to smile and he turned to the older man 
beside him and shook his head. 

“No,” he went on, “I’m not going to say a word about 
that night I passed in that darn place. I’m just going to 
ask you boys to sort of forget it, and forget your grouch. 
You just got to trust me same as you’ve done right along, 
and maybe later, I’ll be able to hand you the story as I 
know it. You, Chilcoot, know me, and I guess you’ll act 
that way without a kick. It’ll be harder for Mike, who 
hasn’t worked with me the years you have. Still, maybe 
I can make it easy even for him.” 

He thrust out a foot and kicked the fire together while 
the two men maintained their silent regard. 

“The thing I’ve to talk about is the thing we got to do 
right here,” he went on. “I’ve got it planned, and I 
want to hand you the schedule of it. We’ve drawn a bad 
run of blanks for the stuff we’ve been chasing for the past 
year, but the run’s ended. The stuff’s in sight. It’s right 
here on these mud flats, for all the notion’ll seem plumb 
crazy to you boys.” 

The Irishman, stirred and sat up. 


THE GREAT SAVAGE 


241 

“Ther’s gold on this darn—creek?” he cried incredu¬ 
lously. 

“There surely is.” 

Wilder’s tone had suddenly hardened. 

“How’d you know that?” 

Quick as a flash came the red-headed man’s question. 

Wilder’s eyes responded coldly to the challenge. He 
shook his head. 

“Ther’s no reason for me to hand you that, Mike,” he 
said sharply. “Ther’s no reason for me to hand you a 
word that way. You signed a partnership in this layout, 
with me to lead without question. The thing that con¬ 
cerns you is the stuff. Here. You don’t believe that 
stuff is on this creek. That’s so. I say it is. Our part¬ 
nership doesn’t quit till fall next year. Well, I guess I’m 
not yearning to hand you presents. Guess you haven’t 
found it my way-” 

“No.” 

Mike grinned as he punctuated the other’s remark. 

“Just so,” Wilder nodded. “That being so it’ll make 
you appreciate the thing I’ll hand you now. I’ll pass you 
a bank draft for haf a million dollars the day we set foot 
in Placer if we haven’t located that missioner’s ‘strike’ 
somewhere along this mud-bottomed creek. An’ I’ll call 
Chilcoot to witness that goes.” 

The two men gazed eye to eye through the haze of 
smoke. Mike made no movement, but a look of almost 
foolish doubt was in his mute regard of the man who 
made his amazing offer. It was different with Chilcoot. 
He turned almost with a jump. 

“Say, you’re crazy, Bill,” he protested. 

“I’m not,” Wilder snapped, while his gaze remained 
steadily fixed on the face of the man beyond the fire. 
“Does it go, Mike?” he asked. “And does it cut out 


16 



242 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


your kick? That’s the thing I’m looking for. You get 
the thing we’re looking for under my leadership, or I 
hand you haf a million dollars a present. Well?” 

The Irishman raised a hand and thrust his fur cap 
back from his forehead. His amazement was almost 
ludicrous. 

“Chilcoot’s right,” he blurted at last. 

“He isn’t.” 

“You—mean that?” 

“Sure.” 

The Irishman suddenly broke into a laugh of derision. 

“Well,” he cried, “Chilcoot’s witness.” Then he flung 
up his hands. “Say, I haven’t any sort of kick left in 
me. I don’t care a curse if you passed the night in that 
darnation shanty with an army of murderin’ spooks. 
Gee! Haf a million dollars. I’d hate to death a sight 
of that missioner’s ‘strike’ between now an’ next fall. 
Hand out your dope, Bill. You’re boss of this layout. 
Haf a million! Gee!” 

Wilder nodded. He turned at once to Chilcoot. He 
shook his head with quiet confidence. 

“I’m not crazy, boy,” he cried, in a tone of pleasant 
tolerance. “Do you mind our ‘strike’ back there on 
Eighty-mile in those days when we were worried keeping 
our bellies from rattling against our backbones? Get a 
look into this darn swamp and think back. It’s twin to 
Eighty-mile. The formation is like as two beans. The 
same mud, an’ granite, with the same queer breaks of red 
gravel miles on a stretch. Ther’s that. But ther’s more. 
That missioner lived right on this creek. It was his home 
country. And he wasn’t the boy to chase around on a 
prospect. If he made a ‘strike’ it was on home territory 
that was always under his eye. And you’ll mind he never 
mentioned Caribou in his yarns. He said Loon Creek, 


THE GREAT SAVAGE 


243 


which is far enough to keep prying eyes from getting 
around the real location. Maybe he was wise for all they 
beat him. There it is anyway. I’ve got a mighty hunch 
for this creek.” 

He turned again to the fire, and thrust out his hands. 

“An’ you reckon to stake a haf million on your no¬ 
tion?” Chilcoot cried uneasily. 

‘Til play my luck.” Wilder nodded. ‘Til go further. 
I know the stuff is here.” 

“You know that?” Mike broke in. 

“I surely do.” 

“You reckon you ken set your finger on it?” 

“More or less.” 

The man with the flaming head suddenly sprang to his 
feet. 

“More or—less!” he cried almost contemptuously in his 
headlong way. 

Wilder remained unmoved. 

“Here,” he said quietly spreading out his hand in an 
expressive gesture, “we only got a matter of weeks to the 
freeze-up. We’re liable to snow any day now, and every 
night ther’s frost. In awhile the ground’ll be solid so we 
can’t break into it without more dynamite than we got 
stowed. That being so, here’s the schedule. You, Mike, 
now you feel good about it, ’ll need to beat up stream 
and locate prospect ground for next spring. You’ll use 
the whole outfit and you’ll locate camp ground. That’s 
your billet till the freeze-up, and you’ll need to make right 
up to the head waters. Chilcoot and I’ll beat our own 
trail. An’ don’t forget it, boy, Chilcoot’s witness ther’s 
haf a million for you if we don’t make that ‘strike.’ 
Does it tickle you any?” 

“Just plumb +0 death, chief.” 

The Irishman was grinning from the roots of his 


244 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


flaming hair to a neck that was none too clean. The last 
shadow of his discontent had vanished from his expres¬ 
sive eyes. And even Chilcoot was smiling in his slow 
fashion. 

“That’s good,” said Wilder. “Guess we can roll into 
our—Hello! What the— ?” 

He sat peering out down the river bank with a hand 
shading his eyes from the firelight. Chilcoot too had 
turned searching into the night. The Irishman, standing, 
was in possession of the better view. 

“It’s two fellers cornin’ up from the river,” he said. 
“An’ they got a small kyak drawn up on the shore.” 


The gathering about Wilder’s camp fire had been aug¬ 
mented. Five men sat about it where before there had 
only been three. Of the newcomers one was a white 
youth and the other was an Indian, who left Wilder’s 
stature no more than ordinary. The newcomers were 
squatting on the river side of the fire, slightly apart from 
the others. And they sat side by side, closely, as though 
there remained a definite barrier of antagonism between 
them and the strangers they had found on the river. 

Usak sat with his long old rifle laid across his knees. 
Clarence was armed, too, but his weapon was in the na¬ 
ture of a more modern sporting rifle. Of the gold men 
one at least realised the personality of these visitors in 
the night. 

There had been no greeting. The Indian and his com¬ 
panion had approached watchfully. They had reached 
the fire without a word. But their eyes had been busy, 
and their minds full of searching questions. Forthwith 
they had squatted. But only on their recognition that 
their hosts were whitemen. 


THE GREAT SAVAGE 


245 


It was Wilder who broke up the strained silence. The 
moment the flame of fire had lit up the white youth’s face 
recognition had been instant. The likeness in it to the 
faces of those brothers and sisters he had encountered 
that noonday left the identity of both him and his dusky 
companion beyond question. 

“You are Clarence,” he said, with quiet friendliness. 
Then his gaze rested thoughtfully upon the inscrutable 
eyes, and harshly moulded features of the Indian. “And 
you are Usak.” 

It was the white youth who replied. He nodded while 
the Indian sat searching the whitemen’s faces with a gaze 
that was almost lost in eyes narrowed down to the merest 
slits. 

“Yes. Who are you?” 

“Gold men on the trail. My name’s Wilder. Bill 
Wilder.” 

The Indian raised one arm and indicated the others. 

“Him men, too? What you call ’em?” 

His young white boss having answered the first ques¬ 
tion Usak had no scruple but to take up the rest of the 
matter himself. 

“Chilcoot Massy and Red Mike Partners with me. 
And we come from Placer.” 

Wilder’s ready reply was in studied friendliness. But 
his keen eyes searched the Indian’s face, which was com¬ 
pletely expressionless. The dusky face had neither friend¬ 
liness nor antagonism. Yet it was potential for either 
under the harsh mask which Nature had set upon it. 

Chilcoot and Mike left the situation in the hands of 
their chief, and simply sat waiting and curious. The 
white boy afforded them little concern. It was the Indian, 
with his grim manner, and his long, old-fashioned rifle 
that claimed their whole attention, as it did their chief’s. 


246 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


But Wilder was studying the man out of his knowledge 
of his malevolent reputation. He knew he was confront¬ 
ing the dreaded creature who had perpetrated his terrible 
vengeance upon those two people he had encountered at 
the house in the hills. He knew it at once when he recog¬ 
nised Clarence as one of the family he had visited that 
noonday. And he was anxious to discover the impression 
his presence on the river made upon the man. 

He had not long to wait. 

“You gold men/’ Usak said, in a tone that was deep- 
throated and full of the latent savage in him. “You come 
for gold? You come to Caribou.” He shook his head, 
and his eyes suddenly opened wide, and their black depths 
were full of that fierce resentment which was to be feared 
like a cyclonic storm. “I tell you no!” he cried hotly. 
“Caribou is not for whiteman gold man. No. It is for 
the white girl the good boss Marty leave to the care of 
Usak. Him all mans quit Caribou quick. I say him. I 
—Usak. You’m go quick as you come. You not go, 
then all mans get kill up dead. It so. Him no gold on 
Caribou, an 5 Caribou him for my good white-girl boss, 
Kid.” 

With his last word the man stood erect and his move¬ 
ment was without any apparent effort. Fie stood a crea¬ 
ture of mighty stature grasping a long rifle that was 
dwarfed beside him. He deliberately spat in the fire and 
turned away. Then it was, for the first time, he experi¬ 
enced the authority he had forced on his white companion’s 
shoulders. Clarence, too, had. risen, but he did not turn 
away. 

“Say, Usak, just stop right here,” he ordered sharply. 

The Indian was startled. Fie turned again and waited 
at the boy’s bidding, while his passionate eyes narrowed 
on the instant. 


THE GREAT SAVAGE 


247 

Clarence gave him no time to speak. He passed round 
the fire to Wilder and thrust out a welcoming hand. 

“I’m glad to meet you, sir/’ he said, with an amiable 
boyish smile. “Guess I’m only a kid, but I can speak 
for my mother an’ the Kid. You see, Usak’s our guard¬ 
ian around here. He’s the best thing to us that was 
ever put into an Indian’s body. But he reckons this river 
and all the territory around it belongs to my mother an’ 
the Kid, an’ hates the sight of folks he thinks likely to 
do us hurt. You get that? But he don’t quite understand 
things between white folk. I’m glad to welcome you to 
our country, an’ I’ll be glad to welcome you by our home 
down the river. And I guess Mum, and the Kid’ll feel 
that way, too. Maybe you’ll forget Usak spat into your 
fire.” 

Wilder took the boy’s hand in a powerful grip, and 
smiled up into his ingenuous tired face. 

“Why, sure,” he cried. “You don’t need to say an¬ 
other word. I’ve been along this morning to pay my re¬ 
spects to your splendid mother, and your—Kid. And 
seeing I’m located on this river of yours for the next year, 
why, I’m hoping I’ll see a deal of you all. My friends 
here feel that way, too. We’re not pirates come to steal 
anything you reckon is yours, or to hand you a moment’s 
worry. That goes, an’ I guess your mother’ll tell you the 
same.” 

The boy stood for a moment a little overwhelmed by 
the easy, friendly manner of the stranger. And in his con¬ 
fusion at his impulsive assertion of authority over the 
Indian he resorted to the only thing his wit suggested. 
He took refuge in a swift withdrawal. 

“Thank you, sir,” he said lamely. ‘T guess we’ll get 
right on home. You see, we’re just in off a summer 
trail.” He turned away and looked squarely into the 


248 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


Indian’s face. “We’ll beat it home, Usak,” he said 
shortly. 

• © • • • • • 

They watched the shadowy figures in silence as they 
passed down the river bank and were swallowed up by 
the shadows of the chilly night. 

Red Mike turned and grinned at his companions 
through the haze of smoke. 

“That boy’s chock full of real sand,” he said with ap¬ 
preciation. 

Chilcoot rubbed his gnarled hands. 

“I’d sooner be up against the worst Euralian ever bred 
than that darn redskin,” he said meditatively. 

Wilder nodded and extended his hands over the fire. 

“Yes,” he said, regarding the fire with serious eyes. 
“Or a whole darn legion of ’em.” 


CHAPTER X 


DAYS OF PROMISE 

The Kid stood up from her task. She was no longer in 
her working clothes, and the translation was something 
almost magical. Her tall, slim, yet beautifully rounded 
figure was clad in a simple shirtwaist of some cheap 
cotton material, which, with a plain, dark cloth, shortish 
skirt, completed the costume in which she loved to array 
herself at the close of her working day. She was smiling 
her delight, and her whole expression was radiant. Her 
pretty eyes were alight with all that satisfaction which 
Usak, in his simple mind, had dreamt he would witness in 
them. Her lips were parted for the eager talk which 
sprang so readily to them. And as the brooding eyes of 
the savage gazed upon her he felt that his reward was 
ample. * 

They were in the leanto storehouse built against the log 
shanty which was Usak’s own abode. It was all a part of 
the ramshackle homestead which housed them all, but it 
was set apart and without communication with the abode 
given up to the white folks of the queerly assorted house¬ 
hold. 

An oil lamp lit the place with its inadequate yellow 
light, and produced profound shadows amongst the 
general litter. It was set on an up-turned packing case 
which was part of the stock-in-trade for transport. The 
dry mud floor was littered with the result of the Indian’s 


250 


THE LUCK OP THE KID 


summer trade, the extent and quality of which was far 
more generous than the girl had hoped would be the case. 
There were a number of pelts amongst which were 
several white and red fox. There were two or three 
freshwater seals, some beaver and fishers, and a make¬ 
weight of wild cat. But best of all were several ivory 
walrus tusks, and the prize of all prizes to the pelt hunter, 
which the girl was holding in her brown hands and 
stroking gently in her delight. It was a jet black fox. 
And she knew its value to be far more than the rest of 
the trade put together. 

“It’s a wonderful, wonderful skin, Usak,” she said, her 
eyes feasting on the crudely dried fur, which, even in its 
rough state was still soft, and thick, and full of promise. 
“Whoever took it was a swell hunter,” she declared, 
scrutinising it with the eye of an expert. “Trapped. 
And not a scar to show how. My, but it’s worth a pile. 
How much?” 

She raised her delighted eyes to the dark face of the 
big man standing by. 

“Sho!” The Indian shrugged. “I not say him. 
Tousand dollar, maybe. Him much plenty good pelt. 
Oh, yes.” 

“Thousand?” The girl’s tone was scornful. “More 
like fifteen hundred. We’ll get that in Placer, sure. An’ 
these ivories,” she went on. “Oh, it’s a good trade.” She 
laid the skin aside reluctantly and smiled again into the 
man’s face. “Guess if I know a thing we haven’t a worry 
for a year an’ more. Mum’ll sleep easy for a year cer¬ 
tain, I guess. An’ Perse’s pants won’t always have her 
figgering.” 

Then the woman in her became uppermost as she con¬ 
templated the further meaning of the Indian’s success. 

“Mum’ll get a new outfit. And so will Mary Justicia. 


251 


DAYS OF PROMISE 

HRjH r 

An’ we can fix up all the others, the boys as well, I mean. 
It’s just great, Usak. You’re—you’re a wonder. How 
did you do it? Did you locate a bunch of Euralian rob¬ 
bers, an’—” 

The Indian shook his head. But he offered no verbal 
denial. Truth to tell the girl’s curiosity and obvious de¬ 
sire for the story of his summer-long labours made no 
appeal to him. For all his satisfaction at the Kid’s readily 
expressed delight he had been robbed of more than half 
his joy of return by that final incident of his journey 
home. His passionate heart was full of a sort of crazy 
resentment at the presence of the outfit of white intruders 
on the river. And even as the girl talked and questioned 
he remained absorbed in, and nursing his bitter grievance. 

His silence and lack of interest were too painfully obvi¬ 
ous to be missed. And the Kid suddenly dropped to a 
seat on a box beside the beautiful fur she had laid aside. 

“What is it, Usak?” she asked, with that quick return 
to the authority which existed between them. “Ther’s 
things worrying. I can see it in your face. Best tell it 
right away. Is it Clarence ? Has he failed after the good 
things you hoped of him? Yes. Best tell it. I can stand 
things to-night with a clean up of trade like this around 
me.” 

The Indian moved away. He squatted himself on an 
upturned sled awaiting repairs to its runners. And the 
girl watched him closely. 

Young as she was there was much that the Kid under¬ 
stood instinctively. She had not spent all her childhood’s 
days with this great savage without learning something 
of his almost insanely passionate moods, and the poten¬ 
tialities of them. To her he was just a savage watch-dog, 
loyal from the crown of his black head to the soles of his 
moccasined feet. But she understood that his curious 


252 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


ferocity was none the less for it. There was one thing in 
him that never failed to stir her to some alarm. It was 
the narrowing of his black eyes, which, in his more vio¬ 
lent moods, had a knack of closing to mere slits. His 
eyes were so closed just now. 

While she waited for him to speak she watched him 
reach out and possess himself of his beloved rifle which 
had been stood against the wall of the leanto. He took it, 
and laid it across his knees, and his powerful fingers 
caressed the quaint old trigger-guard. It seemed to her 
that never in her life had she observed him in so ominous 
a mood. 

“Well?” she demanded sharply, and her alarm added a 
strident ring to her voice. 

The man looked up. 

“You mak him this question?” he demanded, without 
softening. “This thing I mak to myself. Oh, yes. It 
for me. I feel him all here,” he beat his chest with one 
clenched fist to indicate his bosom. “I mak him no say. 
Not nothing. Clarence him big whiteman. Much good 
trail man. So. I mak you big trade. Plenty food come 
next year. Plenty good thing much. So. You lak him? 
Oh, yes. It good. Then why you mak him this ques¬ 
tion?” 

The man’s jaws seemed literally to shut with a snap. 

The Kid smiled with an effort. She was without per¬ 
sonal fear. Her smiling blue eyes confronted and held 
him as she determined they should. 

“I’m waiting,” she said. “If I wait here all night in 
the cold you’ll surely have to say it. What’s troubling?” 

The girl’s power over the savage was tremendous. In 
a curious negative sort of way she understood that this 
was so. She never looked for the reason, simply ac¬ 
cepting the obvious fact, and sometimes rejoicing in it. 


DAYS OF PROMISE 


253 


For all her youth she understood the danger of his un¬ 
tamed spirit. And many times in her young life she had 
learned the value of the restraining influence she exer¬ 
cised over him. 

The man knew his weakness in confronting her. There 
were times when his hot soul rebelled at his own power¬ 
lessness. It was that way now. But through it all a 
subtle gladness never failed to soften the irritation their 
clashes of will were wont to inspire. The truth was his 
utter and complete worship of her was irresistible. As 
an infant the Kid had caught the rebound of his devo¬ 
tion to his murdered wife, Pri-loo, and the perfect loyalty 
that had been his for her father. From the moment of 
the passing of these two creatures, who had bounded the 
whole of his life’s horizon, he had found salvation from 
the wreckage of his savage passions in the infant life 
that had been flung into his empty arms. Perhaps his 
worship of her was a sheer insanity. But it was an 
idolatry of parental purity. 

He chafed under her insistence. Once he sought to 
avoid those compelling eyes. He gazed about among the 
shadows of the hut in a helpless fashion that was almost 
pathetic, whilst his great hand fondled the breech of his 
beloved weapon. But he returned to the magnet that 
never failed to claim him as surely held as any bond- 
slave. 

“Tcha!” The exclamation was the man’s final, un¬ 
gracious yielding. He flung his rifle aside and stood up. 
And in a moment he was rapidly pacing the narrow 
limits of the hut. “You ask him this? I tell you, ‘no.’ 
No good. So I tell you.” He paused and flung out an 
arm pointing in the direction of the river. “This white- 
man. Bimeby I go kill ’em all up.” 

He remained pointing. His eyes were wide now and 


254 THE LUCK OF THE KID 

full of deadly purpose. A volcanic rage was consuming 
him. 

The Kid’s eyes also widened for an instant. She re¬ 
mained unmoving. Then a smile diawned about her lips 
and presently illuminated her whole face. She raised one 
hand and thrust out a pointing finger at him, and a clear, 
happy, ringing laugh broke from her parted lips. 

“You kill up these whitemen?” she cried. “These 
folks who’ve just come along up the river? No,” she 
said, suddenly sobering, and shaking her head. “If you 
kill them you kill me, too. They’re all my good friends, 
Usak. An’ if you hurt a hair of their heads I’ll just hate 
you to death for ever an’ ever.” 

It was a tense moment. The man had come to a stand¬ 
still, staring incredulously down at the fair-haired crea¬ 
ture who was his whole earthly delight. For all her laugh 
there was fear in the Kid’s heart. The impulse had been 
irresistible. There could be no half measures. The sit¬ 
uation had called for strong and definite challenge. 

“You say him this?” The man’s tone was like the 
threatening growl of a wild beast. “This whitemans all 
your good friend? I tell you—No! Him mans your 
enemy. Him come steal all things what are yours. Him 
river. Him land. Him—gold. Usak know plenty much. 
Him no damfool Injun man. Oh, no. Him wise plenty. 
Him say this whitemans no good friend. Only big thief 
come steal all thing. So I kill ’em up, sure.” 

The Kid breathed a deep sigh. The joy of this wild 
man’s return had lost its glamour. Deepening fear 
gripped her heart. And it was for the whiteman with the 
grey eyes that smiled so gently, and reflected so clearly 
the big, honest soul behind them. 

“You just got to listen, Usak,” she cried urgently, 
stifling the fear which was striving to display itself in 


DAYS OF PROMISE 


255 


eye and voice. ‘'An' when I’ve done my talk you’ll need 
to quit that wicked spirit that’s always wanting to kill 
when folks offend you. I didn’t know you’d had time to 
locate these folks. But it don’t matter a thing. I tell you 
they’re friends—of mine. I’ve known Bill Wilder since 
two summers back. I found him in trouble with his out¬ 
fit on the river below the rapids, and passed him right 
up through the channel on his way north. And I asked 
him right then, when he got along down, to come up the 
Caribou an’ make a friendly visit. He’s come along be¬ 
cause I asked him. Pie’s my friend an’—” 

“You lak him, this man ? Him your man ? You marry 
him same lak Pri-loo was my woman?” 

The man’s tone had changed to one of simple wonder 
and almost of incredulity. His understanding had only 
one interpretation for a man and woman’s friendship, 
and perhaps he was the wiser for it. But his savage, un¬ 
tutored directness of expression sent the hot blood of 
shame to the simple girl’s cheeks. The yellow lamp-light 
revealed the flushed cheeks and the half closed eye¬ 
lids that sought to defend the woman’s secret from the 
man’s searching gaze. 

The Kid shook her head, and denial cost her an effort. 

“It’s not that way with white-folk,” she said en¬ 
deavouring to evade direct denial. “Maybe I just like 
him. He’s big, an’ strong, an’ good. I like his talk. So 
I think Mum an’ the children like him, too.” 

“So you say this man to come by Caribou—that you 
see him some more? Oh, yes. So white mother Hesther 
may lak him, too? An’ those others?” 

The man’s eyes were no longer fierce. They were 
smiling derisively out of his savage wisdom. 

The Kid stirred restlessly under his words and man¬ 
ner. His smile, which was intended for no unkindness, 


256 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


became a hateful thing to her. And she understood the 
reason. She knew that her explanation was without 
truth. She had trapped herself into foolish evasion. She 
knew she had desired herself to see this man again. She 
knew—But she permitted herself no further admission. 
Anger rose swiftly in her, and she sprang to her feet. 
Her pretty eyes flashed in the yellow light and for the 
first time in his life the Indian realised something of that 
which centuries of civilization has bred into the white- 
woman. 

“How dare you say that to me?” she cried. “You— 
an Indian!” She laughed a curious shrill sort of laugh. 
“What is it you say? ‘Injun man no good.’ Maybe 
you’re right. I’m your good boss Marty’s daughter. 
Remember that. I’m your boss. Your white boss. And 
now I tell you to obey. You leave that whiteman, all 
those whitemen alone. I tell you this. Who’re you to 
say who comes on this river? Who’re you anyway? 
Usak, the Indian. An Indian—the servant of my dead 
father, and now my servant. Remember!” 

She stood in the fitful light a tall slim figure of angry 
authority and outraged womanhood. And the great 
Indian stood cowed before the torrent of her scorn and 
wrath. No longer was the smiling derision in his eyes. 
No longer was that blaze of volcanic wrath in them. She 
had smote him in the most vulnerable joint of his armour. 
His worshipped idol had turned and rended him, and 
spurned him as she might some pariah. 

The great fellow’s eyes avoided the girl’s. His simian 
length of arms left his great hands hanging seemingly 
helpless by his sides. His great size reduced him to a 
painful picture of pathetic dejection. The Kid’s swift 
scorn had beaten him as nothing else in the world could 
have beaten him. 


DAYS OF PROMISE 


251 


She moved towards the door without a further glance 
in his direction. Her body was erect, and her heart was 
hard set and coldly determined. There was no pause or 
further word. But she knew. 

It came as she reached the door. There was a sound 
behind her. The next moment Usak was beside her hold¬ 
ing out the precious black fox skin she had left. 

“You tak him this?” he said, in a tone of humility and 
appeal that was irresistible to the girl who knew so well 
all he had always been to her. “I mak him this trade for 
the white boss, Kid. I see ’em five Euralian by the camp. 
I kill ’em all up dead. So I mak tak ’em this black fox, 
an’ this ivory. Oh, yes. I kill ’em all man’s for white 
boss, Kid. All time I do this. I do all thing for Kid. 
So as she say—all time.” 

The girl looked up into the man’s dark eyes. In a 
moment her heart melted. She took the priceless skin 
from his hands and laid it over her arm with one hand 
resting caressingly upon it. 

“You killed five Euralian men for this?” she said. 

“I kill ’em, yes,” the man returned simply. 

The girl shook her head, and her eyes were troubled. 

“I—I kind of wish you hadn’t,” she said gently. 

“Euralian?” The man’s eyes widened. “It not matter 
nothing,” he said, with a shrug. “So I get him skin an’ 
him ivory for white boss, Kid. I kill all thing. Yes.” 


The two men were standing on a gravel foreshore. It 
was the foreshore of a well-nigh dried out creek which 
in more abundant season was wont to flow turbulently 
into the greater stream of the Caribou. It was an almost 
hidden creek, for there existed no apparent inlet to the 
bigger river, except at such times as the spring freshet 


17 


258 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


translated it into a surge of flood water. Now, in the late 
fall, there was scarcely water enough in its bed to do more 
than moisten the soles of a man’s moccasins, and, at the 
junction with Caribou, there was scarcely an indentation 
in the latter’s banks to mark its course. 

But a mile and more to the north it was quite different. 
Here the creek was sharply marked between high, wide, 
barren shoulders that gave its course a breadth of some¬ 
thing little less than a quarter of a mile. And its whole 
bed was a curious, copper-hued gravel which every gold 
man recognises as the precious “pay-dirt,” in pursuit of 
which he spends his life. 

Bill Wilder and Chilcoot were moving slowly over this 
loose gravel gazing searchingly at the higher ground 
which enclosed the deepening cutting. For the moment 
they had no concern for the stuff they were treading 
under foot. They were looking for signs and landmarks 
which they had already learned by heart from minute de¬ 
scriptions. 

With every furlong they explored the encompassing 
walls rose steadily higher, and grew ever more and more 
rugged. Their formation was rapidly changing. The 
rock walls were cut with sharp facets and riven in a 
hundred directions. There was no foliage anywhere. 
The cliffs were bald and not a yard of the wide pay-dirt 
bottom yielded a scrag of grass, or a single Arctic flower. 
It looked as if Nature had refused one atom of fertility 
to the soil in which she had chosen to bestow her treasure. 

It was nearly noon when the explorers’ investiga¬ 
tions were first interrupted. And the interruption came 
at a low headland where the whole course of the ravine 
swung away in an easterly direction, which looked to 
carry it in an exact parallel with the upper waters of 
the Caribou. 


DAYS OF PROMISE 


259 


Chilcoot was on the lead at the bend and he came to a 
standstill, and flung out an arm pointing. 

“Get a look, Bill,” he cried, in the rough tone that for 
him was something indicative of the unusual. “It’s a 
shanty, or I’m a ‘dead-beat.’ ” 

The ravine had narrowed abruptly, but beyond the bend 
it instantly widened. Chilcoot was standing gazing be¬ 
yond, where the dark, rocky walls had risen to a great 
height and overhung, shadowing the canyon ominously. 
He was pointing across the almost dried out stream at a 
tiny human habitation crushed in against the base of the 
opposite wall. 

Wilder instantly abandoned his pre-occupation with a 
curious facet of black rock that was not unlike pumice 
in its queer formation. He had been examining a vein 
of crystal quartz running through it. He hurried up to 
his companion and gazed at the strange vision of a log- 
built shack that seemed a complete anachronism in this 
wilderness of Nature, 

• • • • o • • 

Wilder gazed about him. The interior of the dilapi¬ 
dated hut was no less interesting than its exterior. It was 
old and decayed, hanging together simply by reason of 
the support of the cliff against which it had been built. 
For the moment imagination was stirred, and he saw in 
fancy the picture of a simple missionary carrying on, in 
his untutored fashion, a work that had no relation to his 
spiritual calling. 

Chilcoot, with the practical interest which the discovery 
inspired in his lesser imagination, was examining the 
signs and indications with which the place was littered. 
There was a rusted, riffled pan. There were several 
shovels in a more or less state of decay. There was an 
old packing case filled with odds and ends for a camper’s 


260 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


needs. There were the remains of a fire set between two 
blackened stones, a battered camp kettle and a pannikin or 
two. Just within the doorway stood a bent crowbar and 
a haftless pick. Another pick was leaning up against the 
box of oddments. 

It was easy enough to interpret the story of this de¬ 
cayed and deserted shelter. And the men who had dis¬ 
covered it were prompt in their reading of its story. It 
was a gold prospector’s shelter littered with the crudest 
implements of his craft. And from the decaying walls 
and rafters, and the rust-eaten condition of every metal 
utensil, they read a story of long years of disuse and the 
stress of the northern seasons. 

Chilcoot was stooping over the box of camp rubbish. 
Wilder had turned to the doorway, leaning out of its 
original truth, and, for awhile, the scene beyond it com¬ 
pletely preoccupied him. It was a shadowed canyon 
which, as the distance gained, grew more and more 
rugged with vastly higher surroundings. But the gravel 
bed remained with its tiny stream of water drifting 
gently down from its far-off source. Directly opposite 
him stood a spire of rock that rose up like a monolith far 
above all its surroundings, and the sight of it seemed to 
absorb all his interest. 

A sharp exclamation from Chilcoot startled him and 
he turned his head. 

“What you found?” he asked. 

Chilcoot was standing over the box and its contents 
were littered about him on the ground. He was peering 
into a rusted tin box, stirring the contents with a knotted 
forefinger. 

“Dust,” he replied laconically. But his tone was tense. 

Bill came quickly to his side and together they gazed 
down at the loose yellow stuff that shone dully against 


DAYS OF PROMISE 


261 


the red rust with which the years had corroded the tin 
containing it. In spite of their years, their wealth, the 
sight of the precious metal held them fascinated, and 
stirred emotions deeply. It was a generous sample weigh¬ 
ing several ounces, and amongst it were two or three 
nuggets the size of well-grown peas. Chilcoot picked out 
the largest and held it up for his companion’s inspection. 

Wilder nodded, but his eyes were shining. 

“Sure,” he said. Then he turned away. “Set it aside, 
old friend,” he went on, “an’ let’s get outside. We need 
to talk.” 

The sky was drearily overcast, and the walls of the 
[canyon further helped to overshadow the world about 
them. The two men were lounging on the bare gravel 
which formed the bed of the creek. Wilder had his back 
propped against the crazy shanty they had just explored. 

Chilcoot folded up the paper which the other had passed 
him for examination. It was the plan of Marty Le 
Gros’ gold “strike,” and it was the first time since it had 
come into Wilder’s possession that other eyes than his 
had been permitted to gaze upon it. 

The older man returned it without comment, but his 
deepset grey eyes were expressive. There was puzzle¬ 
ment in them. There was something else. They had nar¬ 
rowed curiously. And the hard lines of his weather¬ 
beaten face were a shade more hardly set. 

Wilder returned the map to the bosom of his buckskin 
parka. He flaked some tobacco from a plug with his 
sheath knife and lit his pipe. He ignored his compan¬ 
ion’s mood, although perfectly aware of it. 

“Ther’s a deal to do yet,” he said calmly. “A piece 
farther up the creek is Le Gros’ old working. The map 
shows that just as it hands us a picture of this shanty, 


262 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


and that queer spire of rock standing up right over there,” 
he added, nodding his head at the curious crag which 
rose sheer from the bed of the creek and towered above 
the high walls enclosing it. “Yes, we got to prospect that 
working, and try out the creek right along. If the ‘strike' 
is right, and the old yarn proves true, the rest’s easy—or 
should be.” 

Chilcoot lit his pipe. But he shook his head emphati¬ 
cally. 

“Guess I can’t hand no sort of opinion,” he said coldly. 
“I ain’t wise to a thing.” 

The tone of voice, the curtness of the thing he said, 
should have had their effect. But Wilder still refused 
to be disturbed out of his calm. His eyes smiled as he 
gazed out over the gravel bed where the thin stream of 
the creek flowed on almost without a murmur. He was 
smoking with that leisurely luxury suggesting a contented 
mind. 

“Just so, old friend,” he replied. “You don’t know 
a thing—yet. But you’re going to know it right now. 
All of it.” 

“I’m glad.” The asperity was still in the other’s tone 
and Wilder’s smile deepened. 

“You see I hadn’t the nerve to insult your intelligence, 
boy, by handing you a fairy tale—while it was just a fairy 
tale,” he said. “Guess I can’t stand the laff when it’s on 
me, either. So I guessed I best cut the talk and stand 
for a grouch. Well, it’s not a fairy tale now. No. Not by 
a long piece. An’ the laff—well, it’s not on me anyway.” 

Chilcoot had sat up. His sturdy legs were drawn up 
and tucked under him in the fashion supposed to belong 
to the tailor. He was gazing round on his friend with a 
look of expectancy. Somehow his whole expression had 
undergone a swift change. He had clearly forgotten his 


DAYS OF PROMISE 


263 


resentment. He was always quick to react. His nature 
was easy where Wilder was concerned. Now a twinge 
of compunction at his own hastiness set him eager to 
make amends. 

“You don’t need to say a thing, Bill. If it suits you to 
keep your face shut it goes with me all the time.” 

But Wilder shook his head. He grinned and raised a 
hand and thrust back his cap. 

“I need to say a whole heap. Maybe when I’m through 
you’ll wish I hadn’t. Say.” He paused thoughtfully. 
Then his eyes lit and gazed straight into the eyes of the 
older man. “I best tell you the thing that lies back of 
everything first. You’ll feel like laffing, maybe. But I 
don’t care a curse. You got to know, an’ I’m crazy to 
tell you. You see, you’ve been pardner an’ friend to me 
ever since the gold bug got into my liver. I’m nigh 
crazy for a pair of dandy blue eyes, just as blue as—as a 
summer sky in California, and a golden halo of hair like 
—like an angel’s. Yes, an’ for a kit of buckskin, all 
beaded an’ fine sewn like an Indian’s. I surely am crazy 
for it—all.” 

The man had removed his pipe, and his hands had 
made a gesture of emphasis that told his companion far 
more than his words. 

Chilcoot’s eyes were grinning, but there was no derision 
in them. They were shining with a depth of interest 
that changed his whole expression. 

“Snakes, man!” he cried. “You’ve fallen fer that 
gal ? That Kid that floated us up the river goin’ north ? 
An’ who you’ve located again right now over at that darn 
queer outfit of a Reindeer farm? Say!” 

Wilder nodded and returned his pipe to his mouth. 

“I surely have, old friend,” he said, with a restraint 
that the look in his eyes denied. “I’ve fallen fer that—- 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


264 

Kid. That Kid whose name is Felice Le Gros. She’s 
just been a dream picture to me ever since I saw her 
handling that queer skin kyak of hers on the river, look¬ 
ing like some fairy Injun gal such as maybe you used to 
read about when story books were filled with wholesome 
fairy tales that set you crazy for the darn old wilderness. 
Fve fallen for her so I don’t even want to pick myself up. 
I want her bad. She’s got to be my wife, or this darn life 
don’t mean a thing to me ever again. Life? Gee! I 
can’t see a day of it worth a regret on a deathbed if I 
can’t make that Kid feel the way I do.” 

Chilcoot’s ill mood was entirely swept away. Hard old 
citizen as he was, saturated as he was with the iron of his 
early days of struggle to loot the earth, a surge of de¬ 
lighted interest thrilled him to the depths of his rough 
soul. No mother listening to the first love-story of an 
only daughter could have been moved more deeply. His 
years were nearly twice those of the other, but it made no 
difference, unless it were to add to the feeling of the 
moment. 

“Does she know about it?” he demanded. “Does— 
Say, her name’s—she’s daughter to Marty Le Gros? 
She’s the 'gal-child, white,’ Raymes told us of? Say, 
Bill, I’m crazy for the rest. Best get right in. I just 
don’t know a thing. An’ I seem to know less than ever 
I did before you began. But you’ve found a gal to share 
life with you. And I’m just so glad I can’t rightly say. 
Get right on with the yarn an’ I won’t butt in. I’m all 
out to pass you any old hand you’re needing.” 

“That’s how I figgered, Chilcoot, knowing you,” Wil¬ 
der said in his earnest fashion. “That’s why I told you 
this thing first. Now just sit around and I’ll tell you the 
stuff that looked like a fairy tale and kept my mouth 
shut.” 


DAYS OF PROMISE 


265 


Wilder began his story at once and talked on without 
any sort of interruption from his companion. Lost in 
the dark heart of the ravine, overshadowed by a wintry 
sky and the rugged, barren, encompassing walls that 
rose up and shut out so much of the grey northern day¬ 
light, he told the story as he had learned it, and pieced 
together, of the tragedy of the apparently deserted habita¬ 
tion which he knew to be the home and secret hiding-place 
of the one-time leader of the fierce Euralian horde. He 
told of the events of his search and vigil in the house from 
the time of his discovery of the blinded Japanese, Count 
Hela, and his panic-stricken wife, to the final moment 
when the woman had pursued him with her story, and 
sought to bribe him with the precious map stolen from 
the murdered missionary. He told it all in close detail, 
dwelling upon the mention of the dreaded Usak’s name by 
the terror-stricken woman, that the other might follow 
out all his subsequent reasoning and re-construction of 
the story of Le Gros and his orphaned daughter. He 
told it right down to the story of his visit to the Rein¬ 
deer Farm, on their arrival on the Caribou, which fur¬ 
nished him with the final corroboration. 

“There it is, old friend,” he said in conclusion. “Usak, 
the husband of the murdered Pri-loo, never gave those 
folk the chance to use that map. He deliberately blinded 
the man and killed his son. And when I got wise from 
the map that this precious strike was on Caribou I got my 
big notion. I jumped for it right away and jumped 
right. This wonderful—Kid—with a face like— Say, 
I guessed right away at the start she was the ‘girl-child, 
white’ I was chasing up, and the rightful heir to her 
murdered father’s ‘strike.’ It was that closed up my 
mouth. I just couldn’t say a word. We—you boys— 
the whole outfit were on a gold trail looking to share in 


266 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


the stuff. And I knew that when it was located, by every 
sort of moral right an’ justice, it would belong to the 
Kid. And anyway she’d be entitled, an’ all her folks, to 
the first rake over of the claims. Ther’ could be nothing 
for you boys till her interest was safeguarded. See? 
She’s the daughter of Marty Le Gros, and was raised by 
that murdering Indian, Usak, who came right along the 
other night and threatened to clear us out of Caribou at 
the muzzle of a rifle that looked to have served an interior 
decoration for old Noah’s Ark. Can you beat it?” 

Chilcoot shook his head helplessly. The story had 
lost nothing from his companion’s telling. He was well- 
nigh staggered at the hideous completeness of it all, and 
certainly amazed. His pipe had been forgotten until that 
moment, and he knocked the charred remains of tobacco 
out of it on a large flint lying nearby. 

Wilder re-lit his pipe and smiled contentedly. 

“Do you get what I reckon to do, Chilcoot?” he asked. 

But the older man made no effort. He shrugged his 
broad shoulders. 

“I’d say it ’ud be the sort of crazy stunt most folks 
wouldn’t reckon to find come out of the mighty clear 
head they guess stands on the shoulders of Bill Wilder.” 

His words were accompanied by a deep-throated 
chuckle. 

“Maybe that’s so, boy,” Wilder retorted without 
umbrage. “But anyway, it’s a stunt to suit my notion of 
honesty, and—yours. See? I sent Mike an’ the bunch 
off to get ’em right out of the way while we came along 
here. That’s all right. Our work’s just beginning. You 
an’ me we’re going to get right to it and test out this 
queer old canyon. We got the time before winter, if the 
thing’s what I guess it is. When we’ve located the 
stuff ther’s got to be the pick of the claims for that gal. 


DAYS OF PROMISE 


267 


An’ one each for Mrs. McLeod, at the farm, and her 
kids. Then we’ll pass right down to Placer and make 
the titles good with the Commissioner. After that— 
next Spring—we’ll turn the bunch loose on the ground, 
and they can grab how they please. How’s that? Does 
it go? Yes, sure it does. I know you. You and me, 
we can afford to cut right out and play the game to help 
these others along. That’s my crazy notion. Well?” 

Chilcoot rose to his feet. There was no doubt of his 
agreement. An almost child-like delight was stirring 
his rugged heart. 

“Surely, Bill,” he said simply. “It’s good for me. 
But that murdering Indian. Does he come in?” 

Wilder’s eyes suddenly sobered. He, too, scrambled 
to his feet. And for a moment he stood gazing thought¬ 
fully down the shadowed ravine. 

“He worries me some,” he admitted at last. “Ther’s 
things mighty good in him, I guess. Ther’ must be. 
He raised the Kid. But ther’s things mighty bad I 
haven’t told you about.” Then he shrugged. “It don’t 
matter anyway. No, he don’t stand in. Maybe things’ll 
happen. We’ll just have to wait. You never can tell 
with a darn neche.” 

A vision of the terrified Japanese woman had risen up 
before his mind’s eye. He remembered the nightmare 
she was enduring at the thought of Usak’s promised 
return. Suddenly he flung out his hands dismissing the 
vision. 

“It’s all queer, Chilcoot,” he cried. “But we must see 
it through. It’s strange. To think I’ve had to beat 
about this darn old North to find the thing—the only 
thing to make life worth while. I could laff, only I don’t 
feel like laffing. Say, boy, you just don’t know how I 
want that—that Kid.” 


CHAPTER XI 


CHILDREN OF THE NORTH 

Each day the sun’s brief reign was growing less. There 
was perhaps six hours of daylight, fiercely bright when 
the snow clouds permitted, but otherwise grey and cold, 
and without beneficence. To the human mind day was 
no longer a thing of joy, but only a respite in which to 
complete those labours essential to existence in the north¬ 
ern wilderness before the long twilight of night finally 
closed down upon the world. 

At the farm on the Caribou preparations for the winter 
were already in full swing. Already the reindeer herd 
had been passed up to the shelter of the hills to roam well- 
nigh free through the dark aisles of the woodland bluffs 
which lined the deeper valleys of the great divide, out of 
the heart of which the waters of the Caribou sprang. 
The labour of banking the outer walls of the homestead 
with soil for greater security against the cold had been 
completed. For the ground was already hardening under 
the sharp night frosts, and almost any day now might 
see the first flurry of snow. Daily the hauling of fuel 
went on from the distant forest bluff which sheltered the 
ruins of the missionary’s home where the Kid had first 
seen the light of the northern day. And this work was 
undertaken by the boys, and the half-breed Eskimos, 
whose work amongst the deer herd had ceased with its 
departure to the hills in search of winter keep. 

268 


CHILDREN OF THE NORTH 


269 


Life just now was a sheer routine. A routine which 
demanded faithful observance. The least neglect might 
well spell disaster for those who knew the narrowness of 
the margin in human victory over the merciless winter 
season. But these northern people knew the routine of 
it by heart, and nothing would be neglected, nothing 
forgotten. The haulage of fuel would go on far into 
the winter, and when the world froze up and the white 
pall was spread over its dead body only the method of 
its transport would be changed. 

But for all the drear of outlook in the coming season 
life was apparently no less the care-free thing which the 
youth of the farm so surely made it appear. Childish 
laughter was proof against a falling sun. It was proof 
against the anxious labour of it all, just as it was proof 
against the contemplation of unending darkness. It was 
almost as though the change had its appeal. Was not 
the twilight of winter something to inspire imagination? 
Was not the fierce blizzard, when the world was com¬ 
pletely blinded for days on end, something to confront 
and defy with all the hardy spirit of youth? Was not 
the brilliant aurora something about which to weave 
romantic dreams as fantastic as was the great crescent of 
dancing light itself? And the ghostly northern lights, 
and the brilliant night-lit heavens, with their moon, and 
reflected moons, were not these matters in which the 
budding human mind could find a wealth of inspiration 
for the riot of imagination? 

Yes, the long night of winter was not without its 
appeal to the young life on the Caribou River. Only was 
it for those elders, who knew its desperateness, who had 
long since learned the littleness of human life in the 
monstrous battle of the elements, a season of grave 
anxiety that left them indifferent to the irresponsible 


270 THE LUCK OF THE KID 

imaginings and dreamings of those at the threshold of 
life. 

For Mary Justicia down to the youthful Jane Con¬ 
stance, with her curling brown hair and her velvet dark 
eyes, the coming of winter was a season of exciting- 
interest. And this year even more so than usual. This 
year there was a curious hopeful change in their lives. 
The measure of it, perhaps, they failed to fully under¬ 
stand. But the effect was there, and they felt its influence. 
They one and all knew that Usak had returned with a 
really good trade. Usak was the genius of their lives, 
and this year he had waved his magic wand to some 
purpose. They had heard whispers amongst their elders 
of a good time coming. They had heard the Kid and 
their mother discussing colours and materials for suitings. 
They had heard talks of dollars in thousands. And 
visions of canned delicacies, of nice, fat, sticky syrup, 
and succulent preserves, had crept into their yearning 
minds. 

But that was not all. There was a wondrous change 

o 

in the hero of their youthful worship. The Kid’s smile 
was rarely shadowed as she ordered their lives. A soft 
delight looked out of her pretty eyes which shone with 
happy contentment whatever their childish aggravations. 
Then the mother of them all. Infrequent and gentle as 
were her scoldings generally, just now she seemed to 
have utterly forgotten her dispensing of them. The 
wash tub claimed her, her needle claimed her, her cooking 
claimed her, leaving her happily oblivious to their many 
and frequent shortcomings. 

Then there were the gold seekers on the river. The 
laughing, red-headed Irishman, who had vanished up the 
river with the rivermen and those poorer whites in whom 
they were less interested. But the two others visited the 


CHILDREN OF THE NORTH 


271 

homestead pretty regularly, and laughed, and talked, and 
did their best to make life one long joy for them. 

Especially was this the case with the man Bill Wilder. 
Bill Wilder had caught the fancy of all, from their mother 
down to the merry Janey, whose table manners were a 
source of never-ending anxiety to Hesther. The children 
loved him as children will so often love a big man who 
is never reluctant to encourage their games. Perse clung 
to him at every opportunity. Was he not a gold man, and 
was not his coming to Caribou a justification of his own 
boyish dreams of gold? Clarence found in him a kindred 
spirit of the trail. And Alg. sought his advice on his 
domestic labours on any and every excuse. But Gladys 
Anne and Janey were his favourites—next to the smiling 
Kid. 

And the mother looked on, watchful and wisely alert. 
Her busy mind was full of speculation and contentment. 
She was thinking how she and her brood would fare 
should these men ultimately find the gold they sought. 
She refused to build on the notion. It was not her way. 
And just now, as a result of Usak’s return, she felt that 
ways and means were less pressing, and so, in her easy 
philosophy, that aspect of the position was permitted to 
drift into the background. 

The Kid was her main thought just now. Her 
woman’s wisdom was sufficient for her to grasp the real 
meaning of Wilder’s frequent attendance at the farm. It 
was plainly written in his manner. It was still more 
plainly written in the manner of the girl in his absence. 
She had long since dragged the full story of their original 
meeting at the Hekor rapids from the diffident and almost 
reluctant girl. She had laughingly chidden her for her 
long reticence. She had even admonished her for the 
invitation she had flung at him, a gold man stranger. 


272 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


But under it all, away back in her simple woman's mind 
she nursed the romance of it all, and hoped and hoped, 
while yet she gravely feared for the orphan she had 
mothered. 

The brief days flew rapidly by. Almost every night the 
tall figure of Wilder came up from the river bearing 
something for their supper, which he was scrupulously 
determined to share. The meal was partaken of by the 
yellow light of an oil lamp. Big Bill, as the children 
loved to call him, was for a brief while a part of the 
family, and sat around in the warm kitchen, smoking and 
laughing, and submitting to the ready banter which his 
search for gold on the Caribou inspired. Then later he 
strode off to his canoe lying drawn up on the river bank, 
and, not infrequently, he was accompanied by some of 
the elder children, and on occasions by the Kid, herself, 
alone. 

Of all the folk at the homestead Usak took no delight 
in these visits. He definitely resented them. But he said 
no word, and simply refrained from taking any part in 
the welcome extended to the intruding whiteman. There 
was never a protest forthcoming. His protest had been 
made on the occasion he had stirred the Kid to wrath, 
and he had no desire to experience another such encounter. 
So he remained at his labours in his own quarters, watch¬ 
ful, alert, determined. And he made his preparations for 
the winter trail which was to yield something approaching 
affluence for those he served. 

It was at the end of his first week on the river that 
Bill’s voice hailed the homestead as he came up from the 
landing, bearing a string of a dozen or more speckled 
mountain trout. The night was dark with heavy cloud, 
but the younger children raced out of the house to meet 
him at his summons. 


CHILDREN OF THE NORTH 


27 3 

A few moments later Perse dashed into his mother’s 
presence flourishing the shining fish at her. 

“It’s a dandy bunch, Mum,” he cried, sprawling them 
on the table. “They’re for supper. Big Bill’s cornin’ 
right along up with Janey an’ Gladys Anne.” 

He turned to the Kid who was gazing down at the fish 
without any display of interest. The boy’s grinning eyes 
were full of mischief. He came round to her side and 
looked into her unsmiling eyes. 

“Guess you didn’t get it, Kid,” he said. “Big Bill’s 
cornin’ right along up.” 

Then he jumped and ran for the door under a swift 
cuff that came from his mother’s work-worn hand. 

“Be right off you imp o’ perdition,” she cried. “The 
Kid ain’t worried whose cornin’ to this house. Ef I get 
that talk agin ther’s a rawhide waitin’ on you.” 

Then she moved to the girl’s side. She reached up and 
laid a sympathetic hand on her slim shoulder. 

“Say, Kid,” she said, with a gentle smile. “Ther’s 
scarce a night he don’t come along.” She glanced hastily 
round the room to be sure they were alone. “Are you 
kind o’ glad?” she ventured anxiously. “Does it make 
you feel sort o’—glad?” 

The girl smiled down into the soft brown eyes. She 
nodded. 

“Yes, Mum, I’m just glad all through.” She paused. 
“But I was kind of thinking. It was fixed Clarence was 
to make the trail to Placer with Usak. Well, Usak don’t 
reckon it’s safe to trust to him—a boy. He figgers I best 

g°- 

The mother nodded. Then she drew a deep breath. 

“He’s queer,” she said. “I reckon he hates Big Bill 
Wilder.” 

The Kid laughed, but it was without mirth. 


18 


274 THE LUCK OF THE KID 

“He surely does, Mum,” she said with bitter emphasis. 
• «•••* ** 

The man was standing just inside the doorway. The 
pleasant warmth was welcome enough in contrast to the 
sharp night air outside. But he made no attempt to 
remove the seal parka which had replaced the thick 
peajacket he usually wore. 

“No,” he said with a laugh, in response to the mother’s 
urging to “sit around” while she prepared the supper. 
“Guess I’m not eating with you dear folk to-night.” His 
gaze sought the shyly smiling eyes of the Kid. “There 
aren’t enough of those trout to make a right feed for the 
bunch. And, anyway, Chilcoot and I are making a party 
to ourselves.” 

He turned to the mother who was at the stove, about 
to shake down the ashes and fire-up for the preparation of 
the evening meal. 

“We’d have fancied askin’ you all, the whole bunch, 
to come right along up and eat with us. But I guess the 
kiddies need to make their blankets early, and anyway 
our camp fixings aren’t unlimited. So we reckoned to 
ask you, mam, and the Kid, here, and say one of the boys. 
That ’ud leave Mary and the other standing guard over 
the bunch of mischief you leave behind to see they don’t 
choke themselves. And there’s always the great Usak 
to see no harm comes to them. Do you feel like making 
the trip? Chilcoot’s waiting around at the landing, and 
ther's two canoes to take us up.” 

“Say, if that ain’t real mean.” 

It was Perse, who had flung himself into the chair 
usually at the disposal of Big Bill on his evening visits. 
His small body was lost in the ample rawhide seat. 

“I call that dirt mean,” he went on, in an aggrieved 
treble. “What you makin’ the party for, Bill? Ha’ 


CHILDREN OF THE NORTH 


275 


you made the big ‘strike’?” Then his intelligent grey 
eyes turned shrewdly on the Kid. “Guess I know though. 
I’ll—” 

For a second time he hastily vacated the room. The 
ready hand of the mother, quick as it was, had no time 
to descend before he had jumped clear. 

“Yes,” she cried after him, “you beat it, and send 
Clarence along right at once. He’s working around with 
Usak an’ Alg. in the fur store. You ken send Mary 
Justicia right along, too.” 

Then she turned to the smiling man who found keen 
amusement in the outrageous Perse. 

“He’s an imp, that’s what he is,” she declared, while 
the Kid moved quickly to the stove and shook it down. 
“But that’s real kind of you, Bill. I’d like fine to come 
along and eat with you, but I guess these ‘God’s Blessings’ 
o’ mine ’ud run wild without me. Would you fancy 
takin’ Mary Justicia along, and that bright little feller, 
Perse, an’ Clarence, an’ the Kid? I’ll pass Perse a word 
and set him behavin’ right. He’ll make one more bit for 
you to feed than you reckon, but I don’t guess that’ll 
worry your outfit. He can take his own platter an* 
pannikin. He’d be mighty grieved not to go. You see, 
he thinks Big Bill the greatest proposition north o’ ‘sixty’ 
—seeing he guesses ther’s gold on Caribou.” 

The woman’s eyes twinkled with humour as she con¬ 
cluded with the now time-honoured jest at her visitor’s 
expense. 

Bill nodded good-humouredly, and his eyes sought the 
face of the girl standing in the background beside the 
stove. 

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll be real glad for the boy to come 
along.” He laughed. “Ther’ won’t be anything fancy 
for him t’eat. It’s just duck, an’ some trout, an 9 some 


276 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


canned truck. But I’d sure be glad. Wot you say, 
Kid?” he asked, his tone not without a shade of con¬ 
cern. “Will you come along up with us? Bd been 
mighty thankful for your Mum to share in, but I sort 
of knew beforehand the social whirl on Caribou hadn’t 
a claim on her to compare with her ‘ God’s Blessings.’ 
Will you come? Chilcoot reckons he’s all sorts of a 
feller at entertaining women folk to supper. An’ maybe 
he’ll start in to yarn of the gold trail, an’ we’ll be hard 
set to stop him. Ther’s an elegant moon for the trip. 
And you’ll all be right back before she sets.” 

His manner was light but behind it was real earnest¬ 
ness, and a shade of anxiety. Hesther, all the mother 
in her alert, was swift to detect it. She smiled 
encouragingly round on the girl. 

The Kid nodded. Her gaze was averted with just a 
shadow of shyness. 

“I’d just love the trip,” she declared quickly. Then her 
shyness passed and her sweet blue eyes laughed happily 
into the man’s face. “What is it? Have you found Perse’s 
color? Ther’s sure something back of this,” she went on 
in delighted enjoyment, as she watched the man’s ex¬ 
pressive face as he strove for unconcern. She shook her 
head. “No,” she declared. “Guess it’s not Perse’s gold. 
I guess you reckon Mum’s cooking isn’t the thing she 
believes, and you’re goin’ to show us the sort of swell 
thing Chilcoot and you make of it. My! I’m dying to 
see how two great men live on the trail. Sure I’ll come, 
an’ so will Mary, an’ Clarence, an’ Perse. Do we need 
to fix ourselves for the party? Perse most always needs 
fixing, anyway.” 

There was a laugh in every word the girl spoke, and 
to the man it was a delight to listen to her, and to watch 
the play of her expressive face. 


CHILDREN OF THE NORTH 


277 


To the mother eyes there was that in the girl’s manner 
which wholly escaped the man. She knew the Kid was 
striving with everything in her power to conceal the 
feelings Wilder had so deeply stirred in her. She sighed 
quietly, and hoped and prayed that all might be for 
the best happiness of the girl she had come to lean on so 
surely in the battle they fought together for existence. 
She only had her instinct to guide her. She had no real 
worldly wisdom. She liked the steady, honest gaze of 
Bill’s eyes. So she yielded to that best philosophy in the 
world, which, in sober moments, she was wont to hurl at 
her inquiring offspring: “Act right, an’ eat good, an' 
don’t worry to get after Fate with a club.” 

Bill laughed. He was in the mood to laugh. 

“No,” he said. “Come right along, just as you’re 
fixed. Chilcoot don’t reckon to receive you in swallow¬ 
tails. Maybe he’s greased his roof with seal oil to make 
it shine some. I can’t say. Ah, here’s Clarence, an’ 
Mary, and Master Perse. Now beat it all of you and 
get right into parkas. Your Mum figgers to be rid of 
you awhile so you’re coming right along to eat with me. 
Guess Chilcoot’ll be nigh frozen to death waiting down 
at the river.” 


The leanto was shadowed. The single oil lamp cast 
its feeble rays on the general litter. And the scene was 
characteristic of the Indian whose methods obtained so 
largely in the running of the farm. 

Usak laboured silently, grimly amongst the shadows. 
His movements were in that quiet fashion which the 
padding of moccasined feet on an earthen floor never 
fails to intensify. He was quite alone now, for the last 
of his helpers had departed at the urgent summons of the 


278 THE LUCK OF THE KID 

boy, Perse, who had bidden them to the presence of their 
visitor. 

The man’s dusky face was hard-set as he moved about 
amongst his chattels. His black eyes were narrowed and 
pre-occupied. There were moments when he paused from 
his labours and stood listening. It was as though he 
expected some jarring sound which he was ready to 
resent and hate with all the strength of his heart. 

It was at such moments that his gaze seemed inevitably 
to be drawn to the long, old rifle leaning against the wall 
just within the wide doorway. It was his life-long 
friend. It was his oldest associate in his lighter as well 
as his darker moods. And just now his mood left him 
yearning for the feel of its ancient trigger under a 
mercilessly compressing forefinger. 

The man was sorting and classifying his summer trade, 
and preparing it for transport. Pelts lay scattered about, 
and the smell of pepper, and other preservatives, was in 
the air. The long sled was set on its runners, repaired, 
and ready to face the coming winter trail to Placer. And 
about it, littered in almost hopeless confusion, was an ill 
assortment of camp outfit which needed cleansing and 
repair. The whole scene was of the tentative preparations 
of the trail man. There might be many weeks before the 
snow and freeze-up would make the journey possible. 
But Usak was possessed of that restless spirit which 
refuses to submit to idleness, and whose sense of responsi¬ 
bility drove him at all times. 

As the moments passed his pauses from the work of 
sorting and bestowing became prolonged. Once he passed 
to the doorway and stood out in the chill night air, and 
his sense of hearing was clearly directed to windward 
where the night breeze came directly across the white- 
folk’s portion of the rambling habitation. And on its 


CHILDREN OF THE NORTH 


279 


breath sounds of laughter and happy voices came to him. 
And amongst them he was clearly able to distinguish the 
strong, deep tones of the big man whose presence he so 
deeply resented on the river. 

He stood thus for some moments. Then a sharp 
sound escaped his set lips and he passed again within, as 
though in self-defence against the passions which the 
sound of that hated voice had stirred. 

His examination of the skins had lost its deliberate¬ 
ness. He picked them up and flung them aside only half 
scrutinized. And, at last, he abandoned his task 
altogether. He deliberately squatted on the blackened, 
up-turned bottom of an iron camp kettle, and sat staring 
out into the dark night in the direction in which he knew 
lay the landing at the river bank. 

There was no longer any attempt to hide the desperate¬ 
ness of his mood. It was in every line of his dusky 
features; it was in the coming and going of his turbulent 
breathing; it was in the smouldering fire that shone in 
his black eyes. The native savage was definitely upper¬ 
most. And insane passion was driving. 

He remained, statue-like, on his improvised seat, and 
every sound that reached him from the house was noted 
and interpreted. Sometimes the sounds were so low 
as to be almost inaudible. Sometimes they were the 
sounds of laughter. Sometimes they smote his ears with 
clear definite words, for the night was very still, and the 
darkness rendered his animal-like hearing profoundly 
acute. 

Suddenly there came the opening and shutting of a 
door, and with it a sound of voices and laughter. He 
started. He rose from his seat and moved almost 
furtively to the doorway, and his hand instinctively fell 
upon the muzzle of his leaning rifle. 


28 o 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


He listened intently. The voices were still plain, but 
becoming rapidly fainter. Yes. He could clearly dis¬ 
tinguish the individual tones he knew so well. He heard 
the voice of the Kid. And replies came in the voice of 
the man. There were other voices, but somehow, they 
seemed quite apart from these two. 

He could stand it no longer. He turned about and 
extinguished the lamp. Then he moved over to his leaning 
rifle and possessed himself of his old friend. Just for 
one moment he remained listening. Then, with a curious 
movement suggesting a shrugging of his great shoulders, 
he passed out into the night. 


CHAPTER XII 


YOUTH SUPREME 

The silence of the night was broken by the sounds of 
youthful voices, and the gentle splash of the driving 
paddles. There was laughter, and the passing backwards 
and forwards of care-free, light-hearted banter. Now 
and again came the deeper note of strong men’s voices, 
but for the most part it was the shriller treble of early 
youth that invaded the serene hush of the night. 

The two small canoes glided rapidly up the winding 
ribbon of moon-lit waters. They were driven by eager, 
skilful hands, hands with a life-training for the work. 
And so they sped on in that smooth fashion which the 
rhythmic dip of the paddle never fails to yield. 

The Kid was at the foremost strut of the leading 
canoe with Big Bill Wilder at the stern. Their passenger 
was the irrepressible Perse, who lounged amidships on a 
folded blanket. Behind them came the sturdy form of 
Chilcoot Massy guiding the destiny of the second vessel 
which carried the youth, Clarence, and the sedate form 
of Mary justicia lifted, for the moment, out of the 
sense of her responsibility, which years of deputising for 
her mother in the care of her brothers and sisters had 
impressed upon her young mind. 

Hearts were light enough as they glided through the 
chill night air. Even Chilcoot Massy, so perilously near 
to middle life—and perhaps because of it—found the 

281 


282 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


youthful gaiety of his guests irresistible. It was a 
journey of delighted, frothing spirits rising triumphant 
over the dour brooding of the cold heart of the desolate 
territory which had given them birth. 

The cold moon had driven forth the earlier bankings of 
snow-clouds. It lit the low-spread earth from end to end, 
a precious beacon, which, in the months to come, would 
be the reigning heavenly light. The velvet heavens, 
studded with myriads of sparkling jewels, and slashed 
again and again from end to end with the lightning streak 
of shooting stars, were filled with a superlative vision of 
dancing northern light. The ghostliness of it all was 
teeming with a sense of romance, the romance which fills 
the dreams of later life when the softening of recollection 
has rubbed down the harshnesses of the living reality. 

The delight of this sudden break in the crudeness of 
life waxed in the hearts of these children of the North. 
There were moments when silence fell, and the hush of 
the world crowded full of the ominous threat which lies 
at the back of everything as the winter season approaches. 
But all such moments were swiftly dismissed, as though, 
subconsciously, its dampening influence were felt, and 
the moment was ripe for sheer rebellion. It was an ex¬ 
pression of the sturdy spirit which the Northland breeds. 

There was no thought of lurking danger other than the 
dangers they were bred to. How should there be ? Was 
not this Caribou River, with its spring floodings, with its 
summer meanderings, with its winter casing of ice, right 
down to the very heart of its bed, their very own high¬ 
way and play ground? Did not these folk know its 
every vagary from the icy moods of winter, to its benefi¬ 
cent summer delights ? How then could it hold for them 
the least shadow of terror on a night to be given up to a 
gaiety such as their lives rarely enough knew? 


YOUTH SUPREME 


283 


Yet the shadow was there, a grim, voiceless shadow, 
soundless as death, and as unrelenting in its pursuit. A 
kyak moved over the silvery bosom of the water hard 
behind the rear-most canoe of the revellers, driven by a 
brown hand which made no sound as the paddle it 
grasped passed to and fro, without lifting, through the 
gleaming water. 

It was a light hide kyak, a mere shell that scarce had 
the weight of a thing of feathers. And the brown man 
driving it was its only burden, unless the long old rifle 
lying thrusting up from its prow could be counted. It 
crept through the shallows dangerously near to the river 
bank, and every turn in the twisting course of the silver 
highway was utilized as a screen from any chance glance 
cast backwards by those whose course it was dogging. 

The shadowy pursuit went on. It went on right up to 
within a furlong of the final landing. For the mood of 
the brown man was relentless with every passion of 
original man stirring. But he never shortened by a yard 
the distance that lay between him and his quarry. And 
as the leading boats drew into the side, and the beacon 
light of a great camp fire suddenly changed the silvery 
tone of the night, the pursuing kyak shot into the bank 
far behind, and the brown man leapt ashore. 


The feast was over. And what a feast it had been. 
There had been mountain trout, caught and prepared by 
the grizzled camp cook, whose atmosphere of general 
uncleanness emphasised his calling, and who was the only 
other living creature in this camp on the gravel flats. 
There had been baked duck, stuffed with some con¬ 
glomeration of chopped “sow-belly,” the mixing of 
which was the cook’s most profound secret. There had 


284 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


been syrupy canned fruit, and canned sweet corn* and 
canned beans with tomato. There had been real coffee. 
Not the everlasting stewed tea of the trail. And then 
there had been canned milk full of real cream. 

That was the feast. But there had been much more 
than the simple joy of feasting. There had been laughter 
and high spirits, and a wild delight. How Perse had eaten 
and talked. How Clarence had eaten and listened. How 
the Kid had shyly smiled, while Bill Wilder played his 
part as host, and looked to the comfort of everybody. 
Then Mary Justicia. There was no cleaning to do after. 
There was no Janey to wipe at intervals. So she had 
given all her generous attention to the profound yarning 
of the trail-bounded Chilcoot Massy. 

The happy interim was drawing to a close. The camp 
fire was blazing mountains high, a prodigal waste of 
precious fuel at such a season. And the revellers were 
squatting around at a respectful distance, contemplating 
it, and settling to a calm sobriety in various conditions 
of delighted repletion. 

The cold moonlight was forgotten. The chill of the 
air could no longer be felt with the proximity of the 
fire. The Coming season gave no pause for a moment’s 
regret. The only thought to disturb utter contentment 
was that soon, all too soon, the routine of life would close 
down again, and, one and all, it would envelop them. 

Bill was lounging on a spread of skin rug, and the 
Kid and Mary Justicia shared it with him. A yard away 
Chilcoot, who could never rise above a seat on an up¬ 
turned camp pot, was smoking and addressing Clarence, 
and the more restless Perse, much in the fashion of a 
mentor. Their talk was of the trail, the gold trail, as it 
was bound to be with the veteran guiding it. He was 
narrating stories of “strikes,” rich “strikes,” and wild 


YOUTH SUPREME 


285 


rushes. He was recounting adventures which seemed 
literally to stream out of his cells of memory to the huge 
enjoyment, and wonder, and excitement of his youthful 
audience. And it was into the midst of this calm delight 
the final uplift of the night’s entertainment came. 

The whole thing was planned and worked up to. 
Chilcoot had led along the road through his wealth of 
narrative. He was telling the story of Eighty-Mile 
Creek. Of the great bonanza that had fallen into the 
laps of himself and Bill Wilder. Of the tremendous 
rush after he and his partner had secured their claims. 

“It was us boys who located the whole darn ‘strike/ ” 
he said appreciatively. “Us two. Bill an’ me. Say, they 
laffed. How they laffed when we beat it up Eighty- 
Mile. Gold ? Gee! Ther’ wasn’t colour other than grey 
mud anywheres along its crazy course. That’s how the 
boys said. They said: ‘Beat it right up it an’ feed the 
timber wolves/ They said—But, say, I jest can’t hand 
you haf the things them hoodlams chucked at us. But 
Bill’s got a nose fer gold that ’ud locate it on a skunk 
farm. He knew, an’ I was ready to foiler him if it 
meant feedin’ any old thing my carkiss. My, I want to 
lafif. It was the same as your Mum said when she heard 
we’d come along here chasin’ gold, only worse. She 
couldn’t hand the stuff the boys could. An’ queer 
enough, now I think it, Eighty-Mile was as nigh like 
this dam creek as two shucks. Ther’s the mud, an’ the 
queer gravel, an’ the granite. Guess ther’ ain’t the 
cabbige around this lay out like ther’ was to Eighty- 
Mile. You see, we’re a heap further north, right here. 
No. Ther’ was spruce, an’ pine, an’ tamarack to Eighty- 
Mile. Ther’s nothing better than dyin’ skitters an’ flies 
you can smell a mile to Caribou. But the formation’s 
like. Sure it is. An’ Bill’s nose-’’ 



286 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


“Cut out the nose, Chilcoot, old friend,” Wilder broke 
in with a laugh. “Ther’s a deal too much of my nose to 
this precious yarn. What you coming to?” 

A merry laugh from the Kid found an echo in Perse’s 
noisy grin. 

“It’s good listenin’ to a yarn of gold,” he said. “It 
don’t hurt hanging it up so we get the gold plenty at the 
end.” 

“That’s so boy,” Chilcoot nodded approvingly. “That’s 
the gold man talkin’. That’s how it was on Eighty- 
Mile. Ther’ was just tons of gold, an’ we netted the 
stuff till we was plumb sick to death countin’ it. Gold? 
Gee! Bill’s bank roll is that stuffed with it he could buy 
a—territory. Yes, that was Eighty-Mile, the same as 
it is on—Caribou!” 

“Caribou?” 

Perse had leapt to his feet staring wide-eyed in his 
amazement. The Kid had faced round gazing in¬ 
credulously into Wilder’s smiling face. Even Mary 
Justicia was drawing deep breaths under her habitual 
restraint. The one apparently unmoved member of the 
happy party was Clarence. But even his attitude was 
feigned. 

“Same as it is on—Caribou?” he said, in a voice whose 
tone hovered between youth and manhood. “Have you 
struck it on—Caribou?” 

His final question was tense with suppressed excite¬ 
ment. 

Chilcoot nodded in Bill’s direction. 

“Ask him,” he said, with a smile twinkling in his 
eyes. “It’s that he got you kids for right here this night. 
Jest to ask him that question. Have you made the 
‘strike,’ Bill? Did your darn old nose smell out right? 
You best tell these folks, or you’ll hand ’em a nightmare 


YOUTH SUPREME 


287 


they won’t get over in a week. You best tell ’em. Or 
maybe you ken show ’em. Ther’s folk in the world like 
to see, when gold’s bein’ talked, an’ I guess Perse here’s 
one of ’em. Will you?” 

All eyes were on Big Bill. The girls sat voicelessly 
waiting, and the smiles on their faces were fixed with 
the intensity of the feeling behind them. Clarence, like 
Perse, had stood up in his agitation, and both boys 
gazed wide-eyed as the tall figure leapt to its feet 
and passed back to the low “A” tent, which was his 
quarters. 

While he was gone Chilcoot strove to fill in the interval 
with appropriate comment. 

“Yes,” he said, “Caribou’s chock full of the dust, 


But no one was listening. Four pair of eyes were 
gazing after Big Bill, four hearts were hammering in 
four youthful bosoms under stress of feelings which in 
all human life the magic of gold never fails to arouse. 
It was the same with these simple creatures, who had 
never known a sight of gold, as it was with the most 
hardened labourer of the gold trail. Everything but the 
prize these men had won was forgotten in that thrilling 
moment. 

Wilder came back almost at once. He was bearing a 
riffled pan, one of those primitive manufactures which is 
so great a thing in the life of the man who worships at 
the golden shrine. He was bearing it in both hands as 
though its contents were weighty. And as he came, the 
Kid, no less eagerly than the others, hurriedly dashed to 
his side to peer at the thing he was carrying. 

But the pan was covered with bagging. And the man 
smilingly denied them all. 

“Get right along back,” he laughed. “Sit around and 



288 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


I’ll show you.” Then his eyes gazed down into the 
Kid’s upturned face, and he realised her moment of 
sheer excitement had passed and something else was 
stirring behind the pretty eyes that had come to mean so 
much to him. He nodded. 

“Don’t be worried, Kid,” he said quietly. “Maybe I 
guess the thing that’s troubling. I’m going to fix that, 
the same as I reckon to fix anything else that’s going to 
make you feel bad.” 

The girl made no reply. In her mind the shadow of 
Usak had arisen. And even to her, in the circumstances, 
it was a threatening shadow. She remembered the thing 
the savage had said to her in his violent protest. “Him 
mans your enemy. Him come steal all thing what are 
yours. Him river. Him land. Him—gold.” There was 
nothing in her thought that this man was stealing from 
her. Such a thing could never have entered her mind. 
It was the culminating threat of the savage that had 
robbed her of her delight, and made the thing in the pan 
almost hateful to her. Usak had deliberately threatened 
the life of this man, and the full force of that threat, 
hitherto almost disregarded, now overwhelmed her with a 
terror such as she had never known before. 

She was the last to take her place on the spread of 
skins before the fire. The others were crowding round 
the man with the pan. But he kept them waiting till the 
girl had taken her place beside him. Then, and not till 
then, without a word he squatted on the rugs and slowly 
withdrew the bagging. 

It was a breathless moment. Everything was forgotten 
but the amazing revelation. Even the Kid, in that 
supreme moment, found the shadow of Usak less haunt¬ 
ing. The bagging was drawn clear. 

There it lay in the bottom of the pan. A number of 


YOUTH SUPREME 289 

dull, yellow, jagged nuggets lying on a bed of yellow 
dust nearly half an inch thick. 

It was Perse who found the first words. 

“Phew!” he cried with something resembling a whistle. 
“Dollars an’ dollars! How many? Did you get it on— 
Caribou?” 

“Sure. Right on Caribou.” 

Wilder nodded, his eyes contemplating his treasure. 

“Where?” 

It was Clarence who asked the vital question. 

“You can’t get that—yet.” Wilder shook his head 
without looking up. 

“Mum would be crazy to see this,” ventured the 
thoughtful Mary Justicia. 

The Kid looked up. She had been dazzled by the 
splendid vision. Now again terror was gripping her. 

“You’ll not say a word of this. None of you,” she 
said sharply. “Mum shall know. Oh, yes. But not a 
word to—Usak.” 

Wilder raised his eyes to the girl’s troubled face. 

“Don’t worry a thing,” he said gravely. “Usak’s going 
to know. I’m going to hand him the talk myself.” Then 
he laughed. And the tone of his laugh added further to 
the girl’s unease. It was so care-free and delighted. 
“Sit around, kids,” he cried. “All of you.” 

He was promptly obeyed by the two boys who had 
remained standing. They seated themselves opposite him. 
Then he dipped into the pan and picked out the largest of 
the nuggets of pure gold and offered it to the Kid. 

“That’s for your Mum,” he said quietly. “It’s pure 
gold, same as the woman she is. Here,” he went on, 
quickly selecting the next biggest. “That’s yours Kid— 
by right.” 

Then he passed one each to the two boys and Mary 


19 


290 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


Justicia, and finally shot the remainder of the precious 
wash-up into the bag that had covered the pan and held 
it out to the Kid. 

“There it is,” he cried. “Take it. It’s for you, an’ 
all those folk belonging to you. It’s just a kind of 
sample of the thing that’s yours, an’ is going to be yours. 
Guess old Perse, here, was right. It’s the gold from 
Caribou, an’ right out of your dead father’s 'strike’— 
which is for you, Kid. Say, you’re a rich woman, for 
the best claim on it is yours, an’ it’s the richest ‘strike’ 
I’ve ever nosed out. Richer even than Chilcoot’s Eighty- 
Mile.” 

• •••••• 

The party was over. The journey back to the home¬ 
stead was completed. The full moon had smiled frigidly 
down upon a scene of such excitement as was rare 
enough in her northern domain. Maybe the sight of the 
thing she had witnessed had offended her. Perhaps, with 
her wealth of cold experience, she condemned the human¬ 
ness of the thing she had gazed upon. For on the journey 
home she had refused the beneficence of her pale smile, 
and had hidden her face amidst those night shadows which 
she had forthwith summoned to her domain. 

But her displeasure had in nowise concerned. A land¬ 
mark in life had been set up, a radiant beacon which 
would shine in the minds of each and every one of these 
children of the North so long as memory remained to 
them. 

Somehow the order of return home to the homestead 
had become changed. Neither Wilder nor the Kid 
realised the thing that had taken place until it had been 
accomplished. It seemed likely that it was the deliberate 
work of Chilcoot, who, for all his roughness, was not 
without a world of kindly sentiment somewhere stowed 


YOUTH SUPREME 


291 


away deep down in his heart. Perhaps it had been the 
arrangement of the less demonstrative Mary Justicia, who 
was so nearly approaching her own years of woman¬ 
hood. However it had come to pass Chilcoot had carried 
off the bulk of the visitors, with Mary and Perse and 
Clarence for his freight, leaving Bill and the Kid to 
their own company in following his lead. 

It was the ultimate crowning of the night’s episodes 
for the Kid. Bill had demanded that she become his 
passenger; that the sole work of paddling should be his. 
And he had had his way. The Kid was in the mood for 
yielding to his lightest wish. If he had desired to walk 
to the homestead she would not have demurred. So she 
lounged on skin rugs amidships in the little canoe, with 
her shoulders propped against the forward strut, and 
yielded herself to the delight with which the talk and 
presence of this great, strong, youthful man filled her. 
The shadow of Usak still haunted her silent moments, but 
even that, in this wonderful presence, had less power to 
disturb. 

The impulse of the man had been to abandon all 
caution, and bask in the delight and happiness with which 
this child of nature filled him. Her beauty and sweet 
womanhood compelled him utterly, while her innocence 
was beyond words in the sense of tender responsibility it 
inspired in him. He loved her with all the strength of 
his own simple being. And the sordid world in which he 
dwelt so long only the more surely left him headlong in 
his great desire. 

But out of his wisdom he restrained the impulse. Time 
was with him and he feared to frighten her. He realised 
that for all her courage, for all her wonderful spirit in 
the fierce northern battle, the woman’s crown of life 
must be as yet something little more than a hazy vision, a 


292 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


nebulous thing whose reality would only come to her, 
stealing softly upon her as the budding soul expanded. 
Yes, he could afford to wait. And so he held guard over 
himself, and the journey was made while he told her 
all those details of the thing that had brought him to 
Caribou. 

His mind was very clear on the things he desired to 
tell, and the things he did not. And he confined himself 
to a sufficient outline of the reasons of the thing he was 
doing with his discovery on Caribou, and the things he 
contemplated before the opening after the coming winter. 

The journey down the river sufficed for this outline of 
his purpose, and the distance was covered almost before 
they were aware of it. At the landing they looked for 
the others. But they only discovered Chilcoot’s empty 
boat, which left them no alternative but to walk up to 
the homestead. 

As they approached the clearing the girl held out a 
hand. “Will I take that—bag?” she asked. “I—I’d like 
to show it to Mum with my own hands. You know, 
Bill, I can’t get it all yet. All it means. It’s a sort of 
dream yet, an’ all the time I sort of feel I’ll wake right 
up an’ set out for Placer to make our winter trade.” 

She laughed. But her laugh was cut short. And as 
the man passed her the bag of dust he had been carrying 
a spasm of renewed fear gripped her. 

“Yes. Pd forgotten,” she went on. “I’d forgotten 
Usak. This thing’s kind of beaten everything out of my 
fool head. You’re going to tell him, Bill? When?” 

They had reached the clearing and halted a few yards 
from the home the Kid had always known. The sound 
of voices came to them from within. There was laughter 
and excitement reigning, when, usually, the whole house¬ 
hold should have been wrapped in slumber. 


YOUTH SUPREME 


293 


“Right away. Maybe to-morrow.” 

Bill stood before her silhouetted against the lamplight 
shining through the cotton-covered window of the 
kitchen-place. There was something comforting in the 
man’s bulk, and in the strong tones of his voice. The 
Kid’s fears relaxed, but anxiety was still hers. 

“Say, little gal,” he went on at once, in that tender 
fashion he had come to use in his talk with her. “That 
feller’s got you scared.” Pie laughed. “I guess he’s the 
only thing to scare you in this queer territory. But he 
doesn’t scare me a thing. I’ve got him beat all the while 
—when it comes to a show-down.” 

“Maybe you have in a—show-down.” 

The man shook his head. 

“I get your meaning,” he said. “But don’t worry.” 

“But I do. I can’t help it.” The Kid’s tone was a 
little desperate. “You see, I know Usak. I’ve known 
him all my life. He threatened your life to me the night 
he found you on the river. I jumped in on him and 
beat that talk out of him. But—you see, he reckons 
you’re out to steal our land, our river, our—gold. It’s 
the last that scares me. If he knows the stuff’s found, 
and unless he knows right away the big things you’re 
doing—Don’t you see? Oh, I’m scared for you, Bill. 
Usak’s crazy mad if he thinks folk are going to hurt me. 
You’ll tell him quick, won’t you? I won’t sleep till I’m 
—sure. You see, if a thing happened to you—” 

“Nothing’s goin’ to happen, little Kid. I sure promise 
you.” 

The man’s words came deep, and low, and thrilling 
with something he could not keep out of them. It was 
the girl’s unfeigned solicitude that stirred him. And 
again the old headlong impulse was striving to gain the 
upper hand. He resisted it, as he had resisted it before. 


294 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


But this time he sought the coward’s refuge. He reached 
out a hand and laid it gently on the girl’s soft shoulder. 

“Come right in, an*—show your Mum,” he said. 
“Hark at ’em. That’s Perse. I’d know his laugh in a 
thousand. Say, we’re missing all sorts of a time.” 


The two men were back at their camp. They were 
seated over the remains of their generous camp fire. It 
had sadly fallen from its great estate. It was no longer 
a prodigal expression of their hospitality, but a mere, 
ruddy heap of hot cinders with a wisp of smoke rising 
out of its glowing heart. Still, however, it yielded a 
welcome temperature to the bitter chill of the now frown¬ 
ing night. 

Chilcoot remained faithful to his up-turned camp kettle, 
but Bill concerned himself with no such luxury. He was 
squatting Indian-fashion on his haunches, with his hands 
clasped about his knees. It was a moment of deep con¬ 
templation before seeking their blankets, and both were 
smoking. 

It was the older man who broke the long silence. He 
was in a mood to talk, for the events of the night had 
stirred him even more deeply than he knew. 

“They felt mighty good,” he observed contentedly. 
“Them queer bits o’ life.” 

His gaze remained on the heart of the fire for his 
words were in the manner of a thought spoken aloud. 

Bill nodded. 

“Pore kids,” he said. 

In a moment the older man’s eyes were turned upon 
him, and their smiling depths were full of amiable 
derision. 

“Pore?” he exclaimed. Then his hands were outspread 


YOUTH SUPREME 


295 


in an expressive gesture. “Say, you’ve handed ’em a 
prize-packet that needs to cut that darn word right out 
of your talk.” 

He looked for reply to his challenge, but none was 
forthcoming. And he returned again to his happy con¬ 
templation of the fire. 

Bill smoked on. But somehow there was none of the 
other’s easy contentment in his enjoyment. He was 
smoking rapidly, in the manner of a mind that was 
restless, of a thought unpleasantly pre-occupied. The 
expression of his eyes, too, was entirely different. They 
were plainly alert, and a light pucker of concentration 
had drawn his even brows together. He seemed to be 
listening. Nor was his listening for the sound of his 
companion’s voice. 

At long last Chilcoot bestirred himself and knocked 
out his pipe, and his eyes again sought his silent partner. 

“The blankets fer me,” he said, and rose to his feet. 
He laughed quietly. “I’ll sure dream of kids an’ things 
all mussed up with fool men who don’t know better.” 

“Sure.” Bill nodded without turning. Then he 
added: “You best make ’em. I’ll sit awhile.” 

Chilcoot’s gaze sharpened as he contemplated the 
squatting figure. 

“Kind o’ feel like thinkin’ some?” he observed 
shrewdly. 

“Maybe.” 

The older man grinned. 

“She’d take most boys o’ your years—thinkin’!” 

“Ye—es.” 

Bill had turned, and was gazing up into the other’s 
smiling face. But there was no invitation to continue 
the talk in his regard. On the contrary. And Chilcoot’s 
smile passed abruptly. 


296 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


“Guess I’ll beat it,” he said a little hurriedly. And the 
sitting man made no attempt to detain him. 

• o • • • • • 

The man at the fire was no longer gazing into it. He 
was peering out into the dark of the night. Further¬ 
more he was no longer squatting on his haunches. He 
had shifted his position, lying on his side so that his 
range of vision avoided the fire-light as he searched in the 
direction of the water’s edge below him. His heavy pea- 
jacket had been unfastened, and his right hand was thrust 
deep in its pocket. 

The fire had been replenished and raked together. It 
was burning merrily, as though the man before it con¬ 
templated a prolonged vigil. The night sounds were few 
enough just now in the northern wilderness. The flies 
and mosquitoes were no longer the burden they were in 
summer. The frigid night seemed to have silenced their 
hum, as it had silenced most other sounds. The voice of 
the sluggish river alone went on with that soothing 
monotony which would continue until the final freeze-up. 

But Wilder was alert in every fibre. He had reason to 
be. For all the silence he knew there was movement 
going on. Secret movement which would have to be 
dealt with before the night was out. His ears had long 
since detected it. They had detected it on the river, both 
going down and returning. And imagination had sup¬ 
plied interpretation. Now he was awaiting that develop¬ 
ment he felt would surely come. 

He had not long to wait. A sound of moccasined feet 
padding over the loose gravel of the river bed suddenly 
developed. It was approaching him. And he strained in 
the darkness for a vision of his visitor. After awhile 
a shadowy outline took definite shape. It was of the tall, 
burly figure of a man coming up from the water’s edge. 


YOUTH SUPREME 


297 

He came rapidly, and without a word he took his place 
at the opposite side of the fire. 

Bill made no move. He offered no greeting. He 
understood. It was the thing he had looked for and 
prepared for. It was Usak. And he watched the Indian 
as he laid his long rifle across his knees, and held out his 
hands to the crackling blaze. 

The Indian seemed in no way concerned with the cool¬ 
ness of his reception. It was almost as if his actions 
were an expression of the thing he considered his simple 
right. And having taken up his position he returned the 
silent scrutiny of his host with eyes so narrowed that 
they revealed nothing but the fierce gleam of the firelight 
they reflected. 

He leant forward and deliberately spat into the fire. 
Then the sound of his voice came, and his eyes widened 
till their coal black depths revealed something of the 
savage mood that lay behind them. 

“I see him, all thing this night,” he said. “So I come. 
I, Usak, say him this thing. I tell ’em all peoples white- 
mans no good. Whitemans steal ’em all thing. White- 
mans him look, look all time. Him look on the face of 
white girl. Him talk plenty much. Him show her much 
thing. Gold? Yes. Him buy her, this whiteman. Him 
buy her with gold which he steal from her land.” 

He raised one lean brown hand and thrust up three 
fingers. 

“I tak him this gun,” he went on fiercely. “Him 
ready to my eye. One—two—three time I so stand. You 
dead all time so I mak him. Now I say you go. One 
day. You not go? Then I mak ’em so kill quick.” 

Wilder moved. But it was only to withdraw his hand 
from the pocket of his pea-jacket. He was grasping an 
automatic pistol of heavy calibre. He drew up a knee in 


298 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


his lolling position, and rested hand and weapon upon 
it. The muzzle was deliberately covering the broad 
bosom of the man beyond the fire, and his finger was 
ready to compress on the instant. 

“That’s all right, Usak,” he said calmly. “What are 
we going to do? Talk or—shoot?” His eyes smiled in 
the calm fashion out of which he was rarely disturbed. 
“I’m no Euralian man to leave you with the drop on 
me.” 

The final thrust was not without effect. For an in¬ 
stant the Indian’s eyes widened further. Then they nar¬ 
rowed suddenly to the cat-like watchfulness his manner 
so much resembled. 

“We talk,” he said, after a brief conflict with his 
angry mood, his gaze on the ready automatic whose 
presence and whose offence he fully appreciated. 

Bill nodded. ( 

“That’s better,” he said. Then he went on after a 
pause. “Say boy, if you’d been a whiteman I’d have shot 
you in your darn tracks for the thing you just said, and 
the thing you kind of hinted at. I had you covered right 
away as you came along up. But you’re an Indian. An’ 
more than that you belong to Marty Le Gros’ lone Kid. 
You’ve raised her, an’ acted father an’ mother to her, an’ 
you guess the sun just rises an’ sets in her. I’m glad. 
An’ I’m glad ther’ isn’t to be any fool shooting—yet. 
But, anyway, when ther’ is I want you to get a grip on 
this. I’m right in the business, an’ I’ve got your darn 
ole gun a mile beaten. I guess that makes things clear 
some, an’ we can get busy with our talk.” 

The Indian made no reply, but there was a flicker of 
the eyelid, and an added sparkle in the man’s eyes as he 
listened to the whiteman’s scathing words. 

Bill suddenly sat up and clasped his hands about his 


YOUTH SUPREME 


299 

knees while the automatic pistol was thrust even more 
prominently. 

“Here, Usak,” he went on, in the same quiet fashion, 
but with a note of conciliation in his tone. “You’re 
guessing all sorts of fool Indian things about that gal 
coming along up here to my camp. You talk of buying 
her with the gold I’ve stolen from her. If you’d been the 
man you guess you are you’d have got around, and sat 
in an’ heard all the talk of the whole thing. But you’re 
an Indian man, a low grade boy that guesses to steal 
around on the end of a gun, ready to play any dirty old 
game. No. Keep cool till I’ve done.” 

Wilder’s gun was raised ever so slightly, and he waited 
while the leaping wrath of the Indian subsided. He 
nodded. 

“That’s better,” he went on quickly. “You got to listen 
till I’m done. I’m goin’ to tell you things, not because I’m 
scared a cent of you, but because you’ve been good to the 
Kid, and you’re loyal, an’ maybe someday you’re going to 
feel that way to me. See ? But right away I want you to 
get this into your fool head. I came along for two rea¬ 
sons to Caribou. One was to locate Marty Le Gros’ 
gold, an’ pass it over to the gal who belongs to it, an’ the 
other was to marry Felice Le Gros, the same as her 
father married her mother, an’ you, I guess, in your own 
fashion, married Pri-loo, who the Euralians killed for 
you. Now you get that? I don’t want the Kid’s gold, or 
land, or farm. They cut no ice with me. I’m so rich I 
hate the sight of gold. But I want the Kid. I want to 
marry her and take her right away where the sun shines 
and the world’s worth living in. Where she won’t need 
to worry for food or trade, an’ won’t need to wear rein¬ 
deer buckskin all the time. And anyway won’t have to 
live the life of a white-Indian.” 



3 °° 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


The keen gaze of the whiteman held the Indian fast. 
There was no smile in his eyes. But there was infinite 
command and frank honesty. Usak stirred uneasily. It 
was an expression of the reaction taking place in him. 

“Him marry my good boss, Kid?” 

The savage had gone out of the man’s tone. The nar¬ 
rowed eyes had widened, and a curious shining light filled 
them. 

“You give him all him gold? The gold of my good 
boss, Marty?” he went on, as though striving for con¬ 
viction that he had heard aright. “Sure? You mak him 
this? You not mak back to Placer wher’ all him white- 
woman live? You want only him Kid, same lak Usak 
want him Pri-loo all time? Only him Kid? Yes?” 

Bill nodded with a dawning smile. 

“You big man all much gold?” the Indian went on 
urgently. “You not mak want him gold of the good boss, 
Marty ?” 

Bill shook his head and his smile deepened. 

“Guess I just want the—Kid,” he said. 

The Indian moved. Pie laid his rifle aside as though it 
had suddenly become a hateful thing he desired to spurn. 
Then he reached out, thrusting a hand across the fire to 
grip that of the whiteman. 

But no response was forthcoming. Bill remained mo¬ 
tionless with his hands about his knees and his weapon 
thrusting. Usak waited a moment. Then his hand was 
sharply withdrawn. His quick intelligence was swift to 
realise the deliberate slight. But that which the 
crude savage in him had no power to do was to remain 
silent. 

“You not shake by the hand?” he said doubtfully. 
“You say all ’em good thing by the Kid? It all mush 
good. Oh, yes. Yet you—” He broke off and a great 


YOUTH SUPREME 


301 


light of passion suddenly leapt to his black eyes. “Tcha!” 
he cried. “What is it this? The tongue speak an’ him 
heart think mush. No, no!” he went on with growing 
ferocity. “The good boss, Marty, say heap plenty. Him 
tell ’em Indian man all time. Him whitemans no shake, 
then him not mean the thing him tongue say.” 

“You’re dead wrong, Usak. Plumb wrong. That’s 
not the reason I don’t guess to grip your hand.” 

Bill’s gaze was compelling. There was that in it which 
denied the other’s accusations in a fashion that even the 
mind of the savage could not fail to interpret. 

The anger in the Indian’s eyes died down. 

“Indian man’s hand good so as the white man,” he 
said. “Yet him not shake so this thing is mush good. 
This Kid. Him mak wife to you. You give her all thing 
good plenty. So. That thing you say big. Usak give 
her all, too. Usak think lak she is the child of Pri-loo. 
Usak love him good boss, Marty, her father. Oh, yes. 
All time plenty. Usak fight, kill. All him life no thing 
so him Kid only know good.” 

Bill inclined his head. The man was speaking out of the 
depth of his fierce heart, and he warmed to the simple 
sturdiness of his graphic pleading. 

“I know all that,” he said. 

“Then—?” 

The Indian’s hand was slowly, almost timidly thrust 
towards him again. But the movement remained uncom¬ 
pleted. 

“Usak,” Bill began deliberately, and in the tone of a 
purpose arrived at. “I know you for the good feller 
you’ve been to all these folk. I know you better than I 
guess even they know you. I guess it don’t take me fig- 
gering to know if I’d hurt a soul of them you’d never 
quit till you’d shot me to pieces. I know all that. Let 


302 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


it go at that. A whiteman grips the other feller by the 
hand when he knows the things back of that other feller’s 
mind. Do you get that? Ther’s a mighty big stain of 
blood on the hand you’re askin’ me to grip, an’ I’m not 
yearning to shake the hand of a—murderer.” 

The men were gazing eye to eye. The calm cold of 
Wilder’s grey eyes was inflexible. The Indian’s had lit 
with renewed fire. But his resentment, the burning fires 
of his savage bosom were no match for the whiteman’s 
almost mesmeric power. The gaze of the black eyes 
wavered. Their lids slowly drooped, as though the search 
of the other’s was reading him through and through and 
he desired to avoid them. 

“Well?” 

The whiteman’s challenge came with patient determina¬ 
tion. 

The Indian drew a deep breath. Then he nodded slowly. 

“I tell him all thing,” he said simply. 

“Good.” 

Wilder released his knees and spread himself out on 
the ground, and almost ostentatiously returned his pistol 
to his pocket. 

“Go ahead,” he said, as he propped himself on his el¬ 
bow. 

Usak talked at long length in his queer, broken 
fashion. His mind was flung back to those far-off years 
when the great avenging madness had taken possession of 
him. He told the story of Marty Le Gros from its be¬ 
ginning. He told the story of the man’s great hopes and 
strivings for the Eskimo he looked upon as children. 
He told of the birth of the Kid, and the ultimate death 
of the missionary’s wife. Then had come the time of his 
boss’s gold “strike,” the whereabouts of which he kept 
secret even from him, Usak. Then came the time of the 


YOUTH SUPREME 


303 


murderous descent of the Euralians, and the killing and 
burning that accompanied it. And how he had returned 
to the Mission to find the dead remains of Pri-loo his 
wife, and of his good boss, Marty, and the living child 
flung into the wood which sheltered its home. 

He told how he went mad with desire to kill, and set 
out to wreak his vengeance. He had long since by chance 
discovered where these people hid themselves in the far- 
off mountains, and he went there, and waited until they 
returned from their war trail. 

Now for the first time Wilder learned all the intimate 
details of the terrible slaughter which this single savage 
had contrived to inflict. Nor did the horror of the story 
lose in the man’s telling. He missed nothing of it, seem¬ 
ing to revel in a riot of furious memory. Once or twice, 
as he gloated over the fall of an enemy, he reached out, 
and his lean hand patted the butt of his queer old rifle 
almost lovingly. And with the final account of his 
struggle with the leader himself, even Wilder shrank be¬ 
fore the merciless joy the man displayed as he contem¬ 
plated the end of the battle with the man’s sockets emptied 
of the tawny eyes that had gazed upon the murder of 
those poor, defenceless creatures the Indian had been 
powerless to protect. 

“Oh, yes,” he said in conclusion. “Him see nothing 
more, never. Him have no eyes never no more. Him 
live, yes. I leave him woman. So I go. So I come back. 
I come back to the little Kid, him good boss, Marty, leave. 
I live. Oh, yes. I live for him Kid. I mak big work 
for him Kid. Big trade. So him grow lak the tree, him 
flower, an’ I think much for him. It all good. It mak 
me feel good all inside. Him to me lak the child of Pri- 
loo. You marry him Kid? Good. You give him gold? 
Good. Usak plenty happy. Now I mak him one big trip. 


304 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


Then no more. Then I do so as the good whiteman of 
him Kid say. Yes.” 

The Indian spread out his hands in a final gesture. 
Then he drew up his knees, and clasped them tightly, 
while his burning eyes dwelt broodingly upon the leap¬ 
ing fire. 

“Why this trip?” Bill’s question came sharply. 

The Indian raised his eyes. Then they dropped again 
to the fire and he shook his head. 

“You won’t tell me? Why?” Bill demanded again. 
“Ther’s no need for any trip. Ther’s work right here for 
you, for all. Ther’s gold, plenty, which you can share. 
Why?” 

Again came the Indian’s shake of the head. His eyes 
were raised again for a moment and Bill read and inter¬ 
preted the brooding light that gazed out of them. The 
man seemed about to speak, but his hard mouth tightened 
visibly, and again he stubbornly shook his head and re¬ 
turned to his contemplation of the fire. 

Suddenly Bill sprang to his feet and held out his hand. 
In an instant the Indian was on his feet, and his dark face 
was even smiling. His tenacious hand closed over that 
of the whiteman. 

“That’s all right, Usak,” Bill said quietly. “I’m glad 
to take your hand. You’re a big man. You’re a big 
Indian savage. But you’re a good man, anyway. Get 
right back to your shanty now, an’ take that darn old gun 
with you. You don’t need that fer shooting me up, any¬ 
way. Just keep it—to guard the Kid, and those others. 
Just one word before you go. Marty kept his gold secret. 
You keep it secret, too, until the Kid lets you speak. I’ve 
got to make a big trip to secure the claims before we can 
talk. When I done that talk don’t matter. Say, an’ not 
a word to the Kid of our talk. Not one word. I want to 


YOUTH SUPREME 


305 


marry her. And being whitefolk it’s our way to ask the 
girl first. See? I haven’t asked her yet. An’ if you 
were to boost in your spoke, maybe she’d get angry, and 

_j> 

“Usak savee.” 

The Indian was grinning in a fashion that left the 
whiteman satisfied. Their hands fell apart, and Usak 
picked up his gun. Then he turned away without another 
word and the night swallowed him up. 

Wilder stood gazing after him, There was no smile 
in his eyes. He was thinking hard. And his thought was 
of that one, big, last trip the Indian had threatened to 
make. 




20 



CHAPTER XIII 


a whiteman's purpose 

Bill Wilder and Chilcoot moved slowly up from the 
water’s edge. The outlook was grey and the wind was 
piercing. The river behind them was ruffled out of its 
usual oily calm, and the two small laden canoes, lying 
against the bank, and the final stowing of which the men 
had been engaged upon, were rocking and straining at 
their raw-hide moorings. 

The change of season was advancing with that sudden¬ 
ness which drives the northern man hard. Still, however, 
the first snow had not yet fallen, although for days the 
threat of it had hung over the world. The ground was 
iron hard with frost, and each morning a skin of ice 
stretched out on the waters of the river from the low, 
shelving banks. But the grip of it was not permanent. 
There was still melting warmth in the body of the stream, 
and, each day, the ice yielded up its hold. 

It was three days since the camp had witnessed the 
gathering of children about its camp fire. Three days 
which Bill had devoted to those preparations, careful in 
the last detail, for the rush down to Placer before the 
world was overwhelmed by the long winter terror. Now, 
at last, all was in readiness for the start on the morrow. 
All, that is, but the one important matter of Red Mike’s 
return to camp. Until that happened the start would have 
to be delayed. 

Everything had been planned with great deliberation. 

306 


A WHITEMAN’S PURPOSE 


307 


Clarence McLeod had even been called upon to assist, in 
view of the race against time which the task these men 
had set themselves represented. Three days ago he had 
been despatched up the river to recall the Irishman. His 
immediate return was looked for. Chilcoot had hoped for 
it earlier. But this third day was allowed as a margin 
in case the gold instinct had carried Mike farther afield 
than was calculated. 

The last of the brief day was almost gone. And only 
a belt of grey daylight was visible in the cloud banks to 
the south-west. Half way up to the camp Wilder paused 
and gazed out over the ruffled water, seeking to discover 
any sign of the man’s return in the darkening twilight. 
He stood beating his mitted hands while Chilcoot passed 
on up to the camp fire. 

There was no sign, no sound. And a feeling of keen 
disappointment took possession of the expectant man. 
So much depended on Mike’s return. Under ordinary 
circumstances the season was not the greatest concern, 
and Wilder would have been content enough to wait. But 
the circumstances were by no means ordinary. There 
was that lying back of his mind which disturbed him in a 
fashion he was rarely disturbed. And it was a thought 
and concern he had imparted to no one, not even to his 
loyal partner, Chilcoot. 

He moved on up to the camp, and the keenness of his 
disappointment displayed itself in his eyes, and in the 
tone of his voice as he conveyed the result of his search 
to his comrade. 

“Not a dam sight of ’em,” he said peevishly. 

He had halted at the fire over which Chilcoot was en¬ 
deavouring to encourage some warmth into his chilled 
fingers. He removed his mitts and held his hands to the 
blaze. 


3°8 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


“I was kind of wondering,” he went on, “about that 
boy, Clarence. Maybe he’s hit up against things. Maybe 

—Say—” 

A faint, far-off echo came down stream. It was a 
call. A familiar cry in a voice both men promptly recog¬ 
nised. Chilcoot grinned. 

“That’s Mike,” he said. Then he added: “Sure as 
hell.” 

Wilder breathed a deep sigh of relief. 

“I’m glad. I’m mighty thankful,” he exclaimed with a 
short laugh. “We’ll be away to-morrow after all.” 

Chilcoot eyed his companion speculatively. 

“I hadn’t worried fer that,” he said. “Guess we can’t 
make Placer in open weather.” He shrugged a pair of 
shoulders that were enormous under his fur parka. “It’ll 
be dead winter ’fore we’re haf way. It’ll be black night 
in two weeks, anyway. The big river don’t freeze right 
over till late winter, but ther’ll be ice floes ’most all the 
way. I can’t see a day more or less is going to worrv us a 
thing.” 

“No.” 

Bill was searching the heart of the fire. 

“The Hekor don’t freeze right up easy,” he went on. 
“That’s so. But it’ll sure be black night.” Then he looked 
up, and Chilcoot recognised his half smile of contentment. 
“It don’t matter anyway. The thing’s worth it.” 

“What thing?” 

Bill laughed. 

“Why the jump we’re making.” 

There was a brief pause. Then Chilcoot’s eyes 
twinkled. 

“You scared of the winter trail, Bill?” he asked quietly. 

“Not a thing.” 

The older man nodded. 


A WHITEMAN’S PURPOSE 


309 

“It would ha’ been the first time in your life,” he said. 
“I’ve seen you take the chances of a crazy man.” 


“Don’t it beat Hell ?” 

The Irishman had listened to the story of the “strike” 
and sat raking his great fingers through the thick stubble 
of flaming beard he had developed, and grinned first 
across at his chief, Bill Wilder, then at the twinkling, 
deep-set eyes of Chilcoot. 

They were all gathered about the fire, that centre of 
everything to the northern man. The youth Clarence was 
sprawled full length on the ground, happy in the thought 
that he was playing his part in the great game on which 
these men were engaged. He was content to listen while 
the others talked. But he drank in every word with the 
appetite of healthy youth, digesting and learning as his 
young mind so ardently desired. 

“An’ it’s rich? Full o’ the stuff?” Mike’s lips almost 
smacked as he persisted. 

“So full you’ll get a nightmare reckonin’ it.” 

Chilcoot nodded while his eyes sparkled. Mike drew 
a deep breath. The two summers behind them looked 
like a happy picnic instead of the months of wasted en¬ 
deavour they had seemed to his impetuous soul. 

“Ther’s more than a hundred claims on it we know of,” 
Bill said soberly. “Maybe ther’s miles of it up that queer, 
crazy stream. We haven’t worried farther. The stakes 
are in fer the whole of our bunch, an’ the folks across the 
water. That’s as far as we’re concerned. We’re beating 
it to Placer to-morrow to register. Say,” he went on 
impressively, “there’ll be a rush like the days of ’98, and 
we can’t take chances. If the thing’s like what I guess 


3io 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


we'll cheapen gold worse than the Yukon boom did. 
Does it hit you?" 

'‘Between the eyes." Mike laughed out of his boister¬ 
ous feelings. “We ken get the bunch right down, an' 
get a dump of stuff out before the freeze-up," he went on 
eagerly. “What’s it to be? A pool or claim work?" 

“Ther’s goin’ to be no pool. An’ ther’s goin’ to be no 
rake over till spring." Wilder’s tone was decided, and 
the grin died out of the Irishman’s eyes. “I told you 
we’re takin’ no chances. Chilcoot and I have planned 
this thing right out. Of the three best claims we’re sure 
about, one is yours. But you don’t pan an ounce of soil 
till the register’s made, and you’ve got your ‘brief.’ Then 
it’s yours on your own, the same as the others belong to 
each of the other folk. An’ you can work how you darn 
please. But you won’t see the place, even, till we get 
right back from Placer. An’ the boys aren’t hearing a 
word of it till spring. It’s this I sent Clarence, here, up 
to get you around for. I want you to sit tight, right here, 
till we get back with the whole thing fixed. It’s worth 
waiting for, Mike. It’s so good you just haven’t figgers 
enough in your fool head to count your luck. You’ll 
act this way, boy. I promised you haf a million dollars 
if you hit back to Placer without a colour. That still 
goes, but you won’t need a thing from me. You’ll play 
our hand right?" 

Mike’s disappointment was all the keener for his mer¬ 
curial temperament, but he nodded readily and Wilder 
was satisfied. 

“Sure I’ll play it right, the way you want it. But I 
don’t see we need act like ther’ was spooks around waitin’ 
to jump in on us before the register’s fixed." 

Wilder smiled back at the protesting man. 

“But ther 1 are," he said. “If you’d the experience I’ve 


A WHITEMAN’S PURPOSE 


3 ii 

had of this blamed old North you’d be scared to death for 
our ‘strike.’ It’s a ghost-haunted country this, and most 
of the spooks have got a kind of wireless of their own 
that ’ud beat anything we Christian folk ever heard tell 
of. Ther’s six months of winter ahead, and most of that 
we’ll be on the trail, or fixing things. It just needs one 
half-breed pelt hunter to get wise to the game happening 
around, or a stray bunch of Euralian murderers, and we’d 
have haf the north on us before the Commissioner could 
sign our ‘briefs.’ No, boy, get it from me, and just sit 
around till daylight comes again, an’ dream of the hooch 
you’re going to drink to the luck of the Kid. It’s the 
Kid’s luck that’s handed us this thing. It’s the luck her 
father reckoned was to be hers. And by no sort of crazy 
act are we going to queer it. I’m taking your scow, and 
beating it down stream. Clarence’ll feel like gettin’ to 
home.” 

The grinning eyes of Mike followed the tall figure of 
his leader, with the youth, Clarence, striding beside him, 
as it vanished in the darkness on its way to the water’s 
edge. And as they passed from view he turned to the man 
who displayed no desire to quit the comfort of the fire. 

“I’d guessed he’d fallen for it two summers back,” he 
said. “You can locate it with both eyes shut, an’ cotton 
batten stuffed in your brain box. That gal had him fast 
by the back of the neck on sight. The Kid, eh? It’s not 
Bill Wilder’s way of playing safe on a gold ‘strike.’ That 
gal’s got him scared to death for the plum he guesses to 
hand her. No, sirree,” he went on, with a shake of his 
disreputable head, “the Jezebels o’ Placer for mine, an’ 
a bunch o’ hooch you could drown a battleship in. It’s 
easy game that don’t hand you a nightmare, if it’s 
liable to empty your sack o’ dust. That Kid! What’s he 
goin’ to do?” 


312 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


Chilcoot shrugged. Mike was not the man he felt like 
opening out to. 

“He ain’t crazy enough to—marry her?” Mike went on 
contemptuously. “No. He’s no fool kid.” 

A deep flush mounted to the veteran’s temples. His 
deepset eyes sparkled as he surveyed the other through 
the smoke of the fire. 

“You best ask Bill the things you want to know,” he said 
coldly. “It don’t matter what you think. It don’t mat¬ 
ter what any darn fool thinks. Bill’s mostly spent his 
life playin’ the game as he sees it. An’ I guess he’ll go 
right on doin’ the same. And the game he plays is a right 
game. An’ he’s as ready to hand it out to a hooch-soused 
no-account, as he is to a gal with a dandy pair of blue 
eyes.” 


It had been a quiet, almost subdued evening at the 
homestead. Somehow Bill Wilder’s manner had been 
graver than was its wont, and these simple folk, who, 
since his re-discovery of Marty Le Gros’ gold “strike,” 
had so quickly come to regard him as something in the 
nature of the arbiter of their destinies, had been clearly 
affected by his change of manner. 

He had shared their supper, and listened to Clarence’s 
story of his search for Red Mike. He had found it easier 
to listen than to talk. Hesther, too, had spent her time in 
listening, while the children chattered all unconscious of 
the real mood of their elders. 

For the Kid it was a time of quiet happiness, marred 
only by the thought that with the first streak of brief day¬ 
light on the morrow this man would be speeding on his 
race with the season to ensure her own, and the good 
fortunes of all those she loved. 



A WHITEMAN’S PURPOSE 


313 


The girl looked forward to the coming months of win¬ 
ter darkness without any glimmer of that happy, con¬ 
tented philosophy which had always been hers. Looking 
ahead the whole prospect seemed so dark and empty. The 
days since Bill’s coming to the Caribou had been so 
overflowing, so thrilling with happy events and delirious 
joy that the contrasting prospect was only the more de¬ 
plorably void. And with all the untamed spirit in her 
she rebelled at the coming parting. 

Yet she understood the necessity. She realised the 
enormous stake he was playing for on their behalf, and 
so she was determined that no act or word of hers should 
hinder him. There had been moments when the impulse 
to plead permission to accompany him was almost irre¬ 
sistible. It filled her heart with delighted dreams of 
displaying, for his appreciation, her skill and sturdy nerve 
on the winter trail. She felt that for all her sex she 
could easily accept more than her due share of the labour, 
and could increase his comfort a hundredfold. But in 
sober moments she knew it could not be. If nothing else 
the woman instinct in her forbade it. 

The girl never for one moment paused to question her 
feelings. Why should she? The life she knew, the life 
she had always lived, had left her free of every convention 
which encompasses a woman’s life in civilization. Bill 
Wilder had leapt into her life as her dream man. He 
was her all in all, the whole focus of her simple heart. 
Why then should she deny it? Why then should she 
attempt to blind herself? There had been no word of 
love between them. It almost seemed unnecessary. She 
loved his steady grey eyes, with their calm smile. She 
revelled in his unfailing, kindly confidence. His spoken 
word was always sufficient, backed as it was by his great 
figure, so full of manhood’s youthful strength. Then he 


3H 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


was of her own country. That vast Northland which 
claimed their deepest affection for all its terror. Oh, 
yes, she loved him with her whole soul and body. And 
her love inspired the surging rebellion which her sturdy 
sense refused outlet or display. 

No. She had long since learned patience. It was the 
thing her country taught her as surely as anything on 
earth. Besides, the planning was all Bill’s. Every detail 
had been weighed and measured by him. Even it was 
his veto that had been set on her own journey for trade. 
He had urged its abandonment, demanding both her and 
Usak’s presence on the river during his absence. So it 
must be. 

For the girl this last evening together passed all too 
swiftly. Much of the time, while the others chattered, 
she remained scarcely heeding sufficiently to respond in¬ 
telligently to the occasional appeals made to her. And 
then, when the time came for Bill’s going, she rose quickly 
from her seat beside the stove amd slipped her fur parka 
over her buckskin clothing. She regarded the privilege 
she contemplated as her right. 

Hesther observed, but wisely refrained from comment. 
But her children were less merciful. Perse grinned 
impishly. 

“Wher’ you goin’, Kid?” he demanded. 

The ready mother instantly leapt to the girl’s assistance. 

“Lightin’ Bill to the landin’,” she said sharply. “ Which 
the scallawag menfolk around this shanty don’t seem 
yearnin’ to do.” 

“She don’t need to,” Clarence protested. 

“Don’t she?” The mother laughed. “You’re too late, 
boy. Guess Bill, here, ’ud hate to be lit by folks who 
need reminding the thing’s due. You boys beat it to your 
blankets. Kid’ll see Bill on his way.” 


A WHITEMAN’S PURPOSE 


315 


The man was ready. He bulked tremendously under 
the thick fur of his outer clothing. He pulled his fur 
cap low down on his head, while the Kid lit the queer old 
hurricane lamp with a burning brand from the stove. 
Hesther’s diminutive figure was further dwarfed beside 
him as she prepared to make her farewell. 

“It’ll be quite a piece before you get along again,” she 
said, in a voice that was not quite steady. And the man 
laughed shortly for all there seemed no reason. 

“I just can’t figger how soon before I’m along back,” he 
said. “I’d like to fix it, but it wouldn’t be reasonable 
anyway. You see, mam,” he went on, his gaze turned on 
the girl who shut the lamp with a slam, “Gold Com¬ 
missioners have their ways, and sort of make their own 
time. And though I reckon to pull some wires I can’t 
say when I’ll get through. And then ther’s always the 
winter trail. But I’ll sure be along back before the 
spring break.” 

His gaze came back to the little woman who was 
regarding him with wistful eyes of affection, as though 
he were one of her own boys, and he thrust out a hand 
which was instantly clasped between both her rough palms. 

“I just got to be back then,” he went on. “And when I 
come you can gamble I got things fixed so tight you’ll 
only need to sit around and act the way I tell you.” He 
smiled down into the misty brown eyes. “You keep a 
right good fire, mam,” he said gently. “Ther’s no trouble 
for you while I’m gone. Mike’s not a thing but a night¬ 
mare to look at, but he’s got clear orders while Chilcoot 
and I are on the trail. And he’ll put ’em through to the 
limit. You won’t need for a thing he can hand you. 
So long.” 

The mist in the mother’s eyes had developed into real 
tears, and they overflowed down her worn cheeks. 


316 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


“God bless you, Bill,” she stammered, as she released 
his hand with obvious reluctance. “I’ll sure do my best. 
I just can’t say the things in here,” she went on, clasping 
her thin bosom with both hands. Then she struggled to 
smile. “Guess we’ll all be countin’ up till you get back, 
an’ it can’t be a day sooner than we’re all wishin’. So 
long, boy.” 

Bill turned to the elder children who had remained to 
speed him on his way and nodded comprehensively. 

“So long, folks,” he said. “See you again.” 

He passed quickly to the door, where the Kid was 
awaiting him, and moved out. And a final glance back 
revealed Hesther framed in the open doorway, with the 
yellow light of the room behind her, silhouetting her 
fragile figure, as she waved a farewell in the direction of 
the swinging lantern. 


The Kid’s pretty blue eyes were raised to the smiling 
face looking down into hers. It was a moment tense with 
feeling. It was that moment of parting when she felt 
that all sense of joy, all sense of happiness was to be 
snuffed right out of her life. And the responsive smile 
she forced to her eyes was perilously near to tears. 

The lantern in her hand revealed the canoe hauled up 
against the crude landing. Its rays found reflection in 
the dark spread of water where a skin of ice was already 
forming, seeking to embed the frail craft at its mooring. 

There was little enough relief from the darkness under 
the heavy night clouds. There was no visible moon. 
That was screened behind the stormy threat, yet it con¬ 
trived a faint twilight over the world. Not a single star 
was to be seen anywhere and the ghostly northern lights 
were deeply curtained. 


A WHITEMAN’S PURPOSE 


3i7 


Now, in these last moments of parting, the youth in 
Bill Wilder was once more surging with impulse. As he 
gazed down into the bravely smiling eyes a hundred 
desires were beating in his brain. And he yearned 
desperately to fling every caution to the winds and 
abandon himself to the love which left him without a 
thought but of the delight with which the Kid’s presence 
filled him. 

Somehow it seemed to his big nature a wanton cruelty 
that this girl should be charged with the cares of a 
struggle for existence in this far-flung northern wilder¬ 
ness. Perhaps as great a feeling as any that stirred him 
at this moment was a desire to relieve her of the last 
shadow of anxiety in the monstrous season about to 
descend upon them. And yet he was compelled to leave 
her to face alone the very hardships he would have saved 
her from. And this with an acute understanding of the 
uncertainty of the outcome of the thing he had planned 
to accomplish in the darkness of the long winter night. 
For once in his life his usual confidence was undermined 
by curious forebodings. But he gave no outward sign, 
while he listened to the urgent little story the girl had to 
tell of the Indian Usak. 

“He’s a queer feller,” he said thoughtfully. Then he 
added: “You told him clear out ther’s to be no trading 
trip to Placer? An’ still he’s making ready a trip?” 

The girl laughed shortly. There was no mirth in it. 
It was a little nervous expression of feeling. 

“You just can’t get back of that feller’s mind,” she 
said. “Usak’s dead obstinate. He’s obstinate as a young 
bull caribou when he feels like it. It was when I told 
him it was your plan we shouldn’t make Placer. I sort 
of read it in his queer black eyes, even though he took 
the order without a kick. Maybe he was disappointed. 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


318 

You see, he’s got that swell black fox. Next day I 
found him fixing for a trip on his own. I asked him 
right away about it, an’ his answer left me worried an’ 
guessing. ‘That all right,’ he said, ‘I know us not mak 
Placer. So. Then I mak one big trip.’ ” 

The girl’s imitation of the Indian’s broken talk brought 
a deepening smile to Bill’s eyes for all the concern her 
story inspired. 

“I told him right away you guessed it best for him to 
stop around,” she went on. “An’ it was then he got 
mulish. He snapped me like an angry wolf. ‘Who this 
whiteman say I not mak big trip? Him not all thing, 
this man. No. I mak big trip.’ He went right on 
fixing his outfit after that and wouldn’t say another word. 
He’s right up ther’ in his shanty now. I saw the lamp 
burning as we came down. He means to go his trip, 
and-” 

“Nothing’s goin’ to stop him.” The man’s jaws shut 
with a snap. “He’s surely got a mule beat.” 

He remained buried in deep thought for some moments 
while the girl watched him, wondering anxiously at his 
interpretation of Usak’s attitude. She was filled with 
an unease she could not shake off. 

Quite suddenly Bill’s manner underwent a change. He 
laughed quietly, and his gaze, which had passed to the 
dark river came again to the troubled face beside him. 

“Just don’t worry a thing, Kid,” he said, with an 
assumption of lightness which drew a responsive sigh of 
relief. “It don’t matter. Ther’s the boys around, and 
Mike, and my bunch. Usak’s full of his own notions, 
an’ it’s best not to drive him too hard. If he guesses to 
make a trip, just let him beat it. No. Don’t you worry 
a thing.” 

“No.” 



A WHITEMAN’S PURPOSE 


319 


The Kid sighed again. And the man understood that 
the comfort he had desired for her had been achieved. 

Again came his quiet laugh. 

“Anyway we can’t worry with Usak—to-night.” 

The girl shook her head. In a moment she had 
forgotten the Indian and remembered only the thing about 
to happen. It was their farewell that had yet to be 
spoken, and this man would be speeding up the darkened 
river to his camp, and it would be months—long, dreary 
months before she would witness again those calm 
smiling grey eyes, and hear again the voice that somehow 
made the heaviest burdens of her life on the river some¬ 
thing that was a joy to contemplate. The desolation of 
his going appalled her now that the moment of parting 
had actually arrived. 

“Gee! It’s going to be a long night to—Spring.” 

Bill spoke with a surge of feeling he could no longer 
deny. 

The girl remained silent, and her blue eyes sought the 
dark course of the river in self-defence. 

“What’ll you be doing—all the time?” 

Bill’s voice had lowered. There was a wonderful depth 
of tenderness in its tone. 

“Waitin’—mostly.” 

It was a little wistful, a little desperate. For the first 
time the girl’s voice had become unsteady. 

Bill drew a deep breath. 

“Waiting?” 

He turned swiftly in the shadow that hid them up. 
His eyes were no longer calm. They were hot with those 
passions which are only the deeper and stronger for the 
strong man’s restraint. Suddenly he thrust a hand into 
the bosom of his parka and withdrew the folded plans of 
Marty Le Gros’ gold “strike.” 


320 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


“Here, Kid,” he said urgently. “You best have these. 
They’re yours anyway whatever happens. You never can 
guess in this queer old country. Take ’em in case. I’ll 
sure get right back in the spring. If I don’t you’ll just 
have to figger—I can’t.” 

He waited for the girl to take the paper. But she 
only gazed round on him with eyes that had widened in 
. real terror. 

“You mean you’ll be—dead?” There was an instant’s 
pause as though the thought had paralysed her. Then a 
piteous cry broke from her. “Oh, no, no, no !” she cried. 
“You’ll come back, Bill. You won’t let a thing kill you. 
I want you, Bill. You’ll come back to me. Oh, say you 
will.” 

It was a distracted face that was raised to his with 
widened eyes that had filled with tears. 

“Would it hurt if—I didn’t?” 

The man had moved a step nearer. 

Just for one instant the tearful eyes stared up at him. 
Then the threatened storm broke. The lantern clattered 
to the ground and extinguished itself, and the girl’s face 
was buried in her mitted hands. 

The sight of her distress was unendurable. The man 
no longer had power to deny himself. Impulse leapt 
from under all restraint. That wonderful impulse that 
is the very essence of the human soul, the inspiration of 
all life. 'He caught her up in his fur-clad arms, and held 
her crushed against a heart leaping madly with the 
triumph of glowing manhood. 


The grey daylight was still faint over the south-eastern 
horizon. It was growing slowly, transforming the 


A WHITEMAN’S PURPOSE 


321 


darkened world under a grey twilight that was hard set 
to dispel the night shadows. Still it was daylight, and 
just sufficient to serve as a reminder that behind the drear 
Arctic winter lay the promise of ultimate golden day. 

The teeming rapids lay ahead, a cauldron of furiously 
boiling waters, and away beyond them the stately course 
of the Hekor River. To the south lay the wide woodland 
bluff that had witnessed the years-old tragedy of Marty 
Le Gros’ home, flinging deep shadows across the turbulent 
waters. While to the north, far as the eye could see, lay 
the low lichen-grown land rollers inclining gently away 
to the purple distance. 

Bill Wilder and Chilcoot had pulled in to the northern 
bank. Their two light canoes were moored just at the 
head of the narrow, deep, swift channel down to the 
greater river, which was the only open passage through 
the boiling rapids. They were made fast to an up-stand¬ 
ing boulder, and the men were afoot on the shore, gazing 
down at their outfit, and engaged in earnest talk. 

Chilcoot was listening for the moment while his 
thoughtful eyes searched anywhere but in the direction of 
the purposeful face of his friend. And Wilder was 
talking rapidly and with a decision that forbade all 
protest. 

“Old friend, ther’s just one thing I don’t want from 
you now,” he said. “That’s any sort of old kick. Maybe 
I’m handing you reason enough to set you kicking like 
a crazy steer. But you won’t do it, boy, for the sake of 
all the years we’ve ground at the queer old mill of life 
together. You’re the one feller, the only feller, I look 
to to help me along when I’m set neck deep in a tight 
hole, and if you fail me I’ll have to squeal on the thing 
above all others that seems right to me. I gave a promise, 
and I’ve got to make that promise good if it beats the 


322 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


life out of me, and robs me of all that little gal back 
there means to me. I’m going right up the big river to 
the Valley of the Fire Hills, while you get right on 
down to Placer, and pull every darn wire in my name 
and your own to fix the ‘strike’ right. Later I’m 
gambling to get along down and join you, if this darn 
country don’t beat the life out of me. I’ve got to go if 
hell freezes over. Ther’s a helpless woman, and a blinded 
man right up there, and if I don’t make ’em first they’ll 
be murdered by a savage who’s just stark mad to 
slaughter ’em. They’re the folk I got the plans of the 
‘strike’ from. And I got it on a sort of promise I’d see 
no harm got around their way from the feller who hates 
’em so he’d beat his way out of the gates of hell to get 
after ’em.” 

“Usak.” 

The bright eyes of the older man searched his friend’s. 

Bill nodded. 

“An’ that’s why you split the outfit into two boats ?” 

“Sure.” 

“Is he settin’ right out? You got to beat him on the 
river?” 

There was sharp doubt in Chilcoot’s question. 

Bill nodded again. 

“Yes.” Then he laughed mirthlessly. “I got to beat 
it up that river as if all the legions of hell were hard on 
my heels. Say, boy, I got to beat the hardest trail man 
around the North, with a crazy eye running over levelled 
sights. Pve got to beat him and I’ve got to beat the 
winter night. I just don’t know a thing how it’s to be 
done, but if I don’t do it I’ll have broke my fool word— 
which ’ud break me.” 

Chilcoot’s gaze was turned up the river in the direction 
of the queer homestead whose simple dwellers had flung 


A WHITEMAN’S PURPOSE 


323 

them their farewell as they passed down on their journey 
in the darkness. 

“An’ that little gal, Bill?” he said slowly. “That little 
gal you reckon to take right out of here, an’ marry, an’ 
educate, an’ set around in a land of sunshine to raise 
your dandy kids. Ain’t ther’ a promise there that it’ll 
break you to fail in ? Are you feelin’ like makin’ a great 
give-up for lousy scum of—Euralians? Are you?” 

“There’s sure a promise there, boy, I’ll make good. 
If I don’t it’ll only be I’m dead.” 

The old man shook his head. 

“I jest don’t get the argument,” he said in his blunt 
fashion. “If I didn’t know you I’d say you’re dead crazy. 
But you ain’t,” he went on, with another shake of the 
head. “Your promise is the biggest thing in your life, 
bigger than that Kid’s happiness. Maybe you just can’t 
help it. Maybe none of us ken help the things we are. 
I ain’t goin’ to kick. It ain’t my way with you. I’m 
goin’ right on down to Placer, an’ I’m goin’ to put things 
through, same as if you was along. An’ I’ll wait fer you 
to come along till I know you can’t get. Then I’ll get 
back to here, an’ see the Kid, an’ her folks get the thing 
you fancy for them, an’ I’ll see ’em along their trail 
till they can handle their own play. That goes, Bill. 
Guess it goes all the time with me.” 

“I knew.” 

Wilder’s real acknowledgment was in the faint smile 
that shone in his eyes. There was no attempt to find words 
to express himself. And anyway with Chilcoot there 
was no need. 

Chilcoot gazed down at the swaying boats. 

“Will we beat it?” he said, and turned and glanced 
down the swift stream. 

“We best.” 


324 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


It was then the older man voiced something of the 
real feeling that so deeply stirred his rough heart. 

“You know, Bill, ther’s things in life make a feller 
wish they weren’t. You’re bug on a promise, an’ it’s 
the thing that’s left you the feller you are in other folks’ 
minds. I’d make any old promise, so it suited me, to 
folks I ain’t worried about. An’ I wouldn’t lie awake o’ 
nights breakin’ it. But I ain’t any sort o’ high notions. 
Japs—Euralians?” he snorted, “Why, I’d promise ’em 
the earth with a dandy barbed wire fence set all round it 
to get the thing I wanted from ’em. I’d-” 

“Not if you’d seen a queer little woman whose worst 
crime was giving up her life nursing a blinded devil of a 
murdering Euralian husband, and was nigh crazy that 
some feller was coming along to rob her of his life. Man, 
the sight made me sweat pity. If I can save that poor 
soul that much, why—I want to do it.” 

Bill sighed and passed a hand across his broad brow. 

“It’s no sort of self-righteousness with me, boy,” he 
went on. “I just won’t know an easy moment if I don’t 
do everything in my power to beat that crazy Indian. 
Come on. We’ll get right on. We’ll clear these rapids 
and part the other side.” 

He moved hurriedly down to the water’s edge and 
began to cast the moorings adrift. Chilcoot held the 
canoes ready. In a few moments both had taken their 
places, and the thrusting paddles still held the little vessels 
against the stream. 

Bill suddenly held out a hand from which the mitt had 
been removed, and Chilcoot gripped it forcefully. 

“We’ll shake right here, old pard,” Bill said quietly. 
“When we get below we’ll be full up keeping clear of the 
popple. You got everything clear. An’ ther’s nothing on 



A WHITEMAN’S PURPOSE 325 

the river to beat you. I’ll be glad to have your wish of 
luck.” 

Their hands fell apart. 

“You sure have it, Bill, all the luck that’s always yours 
rolled right up into one.” 

Chilcoot nodded and his eyes sparkled with real feeling. 
“So long,” he cried. 

“So long.” 

Bill’s farewell came ringing back as his little craft shot 
out into the stream under the plunging stroke of his 
paddle. 


CHAPTER XIV 
a Whiteman's word 

The grey dawn yielded to the many hues of the sunrise. 
For the moment a cloudless azure dome smiled down 
upon a world with a soft crystal-white carpet outspread. 
For days the temperature had hovered about zero, and 
ice had formed upon the waterways with that fierce 
rapidity which the northern man knows so well. Its 
frigid grip was reaching in every direction seeking to 
seal the world under iron bonds. 

But the Valley of the Fire Hills was dripping and 
steaming. Everywhere the snow was melting, and the 
dark waters of the little river flowed smoothly on still 
free from the smallest trace of ice. The temperature was 
well above freezing, for the terrestrial furnaces of the 
blackened hills were banked and glowing. 

The valley was dense with a fog of steam. It was a 
ghostly world without shape or form. A blind world 
with only the river bank to guide the adventurer through 
its heart. There was no sound of life for all the coming 
of the pitiful light of the briefest day. The world was 
still, remote, bewildering. 

Yet life was there; staunch, indomitable life. It was 
there with purpose, simple, unwavering, and no qualm or 
doubt marred the clarity of its resolution. A boat, a 
small whiteman-built canoe, was moving up the eastern 

326 


A WHITEMAN’S WORD 


327 

bank of the stream, feeling groping, taking every chance 
so that it made its final destination. 

With the first lift of the sun above the horizon a cur¬ 
rent of air stirred the fog, and a cold breath shot through 
the tepid air. It came and passed. Then it came again 
with added force. It was low on the ground and the fog 
lifted. Swift and keen it pursued its advantage, and the 
blinding mist thinned, and a dull sheen of the risen sun 
replaced the cold grey. The wind increased. It bit 
fiercely as it swept down the heated valley. And in a 
moment, it seemed, out of the bewildering fog there ap¬ 
peared the graceful outline of the nosing canoe. 

Bill Wilder breathed a sigh of relief. At last the scales 
had fallen from before his eyes, and his way lay open to 
him. Instantly his paddle dipped, and his boat shot out 
into midstream. It leapt forward under the mighty 
thrusts of his arms, and as it raced on a fervent prayer 
went up that the wind might hold and increase in 
strength. 


The canoe lay moored at the old log landing. There 
had been no hesitation. No doubt had been entertained 
for its security. Wilder had left it to such chances as 
might befall, his only means of return to the outer world, 
while he made his way over the snow-slush to the shades 
of the woodlands surrounding the secret habitation that 
was his goal. 


Half way through the woods the thing Wilder looked 
for came to pass. Eyes and ears were keenly alert. He 
had realised that his approach would be observed. That 
seeing eyes, faithful to the service of the woman’s blinded 


328 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


charge, would be unfailing in their watch. The terror 
he had once witnessed in them had been sufficient to warn 
him that her life was comparable to that of a vigilant 
watchdog, everlastingly searching for the approach of 
the dark, avenging figure that hypnotized her with the 
horror of its return. 

The diminutive figure of the Japanese woman came 
hurriedly to meet him from her hiding somewhere 
screened amidst the dull green foliage of these northern 
woods. She stood before him, her slanting black eves 
widely gazing, and her thin, lined face eagerly demanding 
in its expression of scarcely suppressed agitation. 

Crysa began at once. She had no fear of this white- 
man. But she realised that his coming had to do with 
her safety and the safety of her charge. His promise had 
been her comfort, her most treasured memory. 

“You give him the paper?” she said, as though no 
space of time had elapsed since their last meeting, and 
the memory of every word then spoken was as fresh in 
her mind as though their meeting had occurred only the 
day before. “You give him this thing? And now you 
come that I may know it is so? And Usak is satisfied? 
Oh, yes. You come to say that thing? There is no more 
fear? None? I sleep, I eat, I know peace. Usak will 
not come?” 

Wilder gripped himself before this poor creature’s 
heart-breaking appeal. He knew he must dash her last 
hope, and hurl her again to that despair which had beset 
her so long. It was useless to attempt to soften the facts. 
His resolve was clear in his mind. He shook his head. 

“Nothing will satisfy him,” he said sombrely, “but the 
life of your man. He’s on his way now, I guess. But 
I got away first. I came right along up to get you folks 
away to safety. I don’t reckon to know how you’re fixed 


A WHITEMAN’S WORD 


329 


for a quick get-away. But you both got to make it right 
now, or Usak’ll be along and kill you both up. Maybe I 
can get you right out of the country back to your own 
folk. That’s how I figger. But if I’m to do that you 
need to beat it down the river with me—now. I came 
because of my promise. See? I’m here with a white- 
man’s word to do the best I know. You’ve got to take 
me to Ukisama, and both of you need to make up your 
minds right away. Money don’t need to worry you. 
Only outfit for the journey along down to Placer. 
Well?” 

While he was speaking the woman’s face was a study 
in emotions. With his first words the urgent hope fell 
from her in one tragic flash. There were no tears. But 
panic closed down upon her in a staggering contrast to 
her hope of the moment before. The dreadful fear she 
was enduring left her lips moving. She followed the 
man’s words, as though she was repeating them the more 
surely to impress them upon her staggered faculties. But 
a measure of comfort seemed to come to her as he pro¬ 
pounded his purpose for their safety. And a desperate 
sort of calm helped her as he made his final demand. 

“You come with me,” she cried at once. “I take you 
to Hela. You say all this thing. I, too, say much. 
Maybe he go. I not know. Come.” 

And she turned, and led the way without waiting for 
any reply. 


Wilder experienced a curious sensation of repugnance 
as he entered the presence of the blinded man. He was 
not usually troubled by such sensitiveness. But somehow 
he now realised more surely than ever contact with some¬ 
thing inexpressively evil. The yellow face of the man 


330 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


was almost grey. But whether it was the result of any 
emotion of fear that had produced the noisome hue he 
could not tell. The man’s eyeless sockets seemed even 
more repulsive than when first he had looked upon them. 
Then there were his restlessly moving hands, which, in 
his blind helplessness, never for a moment seemed to 
remain quite still. 

They were in the central hall of the house, that Eastern 
apartment so full of vivid memories for the whiteman. 
It was unchanged from that which he knew of it, even 
to the dust, and the sense of neglect and disuse that 
pervaded it. Wilder remembered acutely. His eyes 
passed over every familiar detail of the place and brought 
back to him a picture of the happenings of that night, 
when', unbidden, unwelcome, he had been a guest in the 
house. 

The blinded man confronted him on his seat upon the 
cushioned divan beside the carved screen. And he spoke 
at once as Bill entered and moved over to the chair which 
was set before the bureau. Crysa went at once to her 
husband and took her place on the seat beside him. 

“You come again?” he said in his low, harsh tones. 

And the challenge warned Wilder of the amazing 
watchfulness which fear had inspired in these two. 
Crysa had said no word as she entered, yet this sightless 
man knew him and understood. 

“Sure.” 

Wilder spoke quietly. 

“I’m here to help you,” he went on. “If you reckon 
to save the life remaining to you you’ll need to take my 
talk at its face value and make a quick get-away right off. 
I’ve just handed your wife, as quick as I could, the 
trouble beating up the river for you. Usak’s behind me 
with his gun. He’s crazy for your blood. An’ I’m crazy 


A WHITEMAN’S WORD 


33i 


he shan’t get you. I took an almighty chance pushing up 
from the Caribou here because I handed your wife a 
promise I’d do the best I knew to save the murder that 
crazy Indian looks for. With winter closing right down 
no one can figger the chances of getting through back. 
Still, I handed my word, and it goes with me. The thing 
I can do is to get you down to Caribou if the winter don’t 
queer us. I can get you right on to your own country, 
which, seeing you are who and what you are, is the only 
thing. Maybe I’ll be going beyond the right I have in 
doing this, but I’ll do it because you’re blind and helpless, 
and because your wife seems to have suffered enough for 
being your wife. There’s going to be no argument as 
far as I’m concerned. That I’m a police officer cuts no 
ice. In this thing I’m just a plain whiteman who’s given 
his word, and it goes. Now, here’s the proposition so 
far as I’m concerned. I’m going right back to the land¬ 
ing, and I’ll wait around there till, the daylight goes. If 
you come along in that time with the truck you need for 
the journey—you needn’t worry with the food, I’ve got 
all we need—you have my promise I’ll get you safe 
through, if its humanly possible, to your own country. 
If I fail my life will pay just as surely as yours. You 
got my promise, a whiteman’s promise, and you’ve got to 
be satisfied with it if you fancy making a get-away. The 
moment night closes in I pull out, whether you come with 
with me or not. That’s all.” 

The repulsion inspired by the blind man’s presence had 
a deeper effect on Wilder than he knew. He had planned 
his method, but his planning had not provided for the 
cold fashion in which he delivered his proposition. His 
tone was even more frigid than he realised. He rose 
from his seat to depart. And instantly the Count’s harsh 
voice stayed him. 


332 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


“And how do I know Usak is on the river? How I 
know this is not a police trap?” 

Wilder searched the ghastly features. A surge of 
anger leapt, and his cheeks flushed till his broad brow was 
suffused to the edge of his thick fur cap. 

“It don’t matter a thing to me what you know, or 
what you don’t know,” he said sharply. “Usak’s on the 
river, making right here with his gun. Ther’s a get¬ 
away there at the landing till the daylight goes. You 
can take it or not. It’s right up to you. It’s there because 
murder’s going to happen around, and it’s my notion to 
prevent it. You’re blind, and your woman helpless. It 
don’t seem to me you matter a hoot in hell. But I’m glad 
to help a woman—any woman. You’ll think it over. 
An’ don’t forget there isn’t more than two hours before 
the daylight goes. That’s all I’ve to say.” 

He turned and passed out the way he had come, and as 
he went he avoided the dark stains on the floor, those 
stains so grimly significant, which even he could not 
bring himself to pass over. 


Half an hour before the last of the daylight a canoe 
crept down to the landing. 

Wilder was ready to cast off. He had spent the 
interim in preparing room in his vessel for the added 
burden of his passengers. He knew they would come. 

There had been no doubt in his mind whatsoever. And 
curiously enough, he was the more sure since the man 
was blind. In his philosophy the more surely the man 
was afflicted the more surely he would cling to life, and 
dread the final slaughtering of his body by an unseen 
enemy. Then in addition there was the urgent appealing 


A WHITEMAN’S WORD 


333 

of the little woman, who was surely something more than 
a ministering angel to this helpless demon. 

Oh, yes, he had known they would come, but he had 
not suspected the manner of their coming. They came 
in their own canoe, the blind man paddling in the bow, 
and the woman, infinite in her despairing devotion, 
serving her man to the last at the steering paddle. 

It was a display of devotion that thrilled the whiteman 
for all the worthlessness of the object of it. And he 
accepted the position readily. It might add to his care, 
but it would lessen his labours. Their escape from the 
avenging Usak was all he desired. But he was by no 
means blinded to the reason that they came in their own 
boat. It was the man’s distrust. He had no desire to 
yield himself a possible prisoner in the whiteman’s craft. 

Wilder nodded approval as they drew alongside, and 
he realised the considerable outfit, including food, that 
had been provided. 

“You prefer it that way,” he said quietly. “That’s 
all right. Keep right on my tail,” he went on, reaching 
up and casting his mooring adrift. “It’s mighty dark 
along the river, an’ maybe we’ll be thankful it is that way. 
If it beats you you can make fast to me. If you’ve sense 
you’ll act that way. I got two eyes an’ I know all ther’ 
is to this darn trail.” 

He thrust out into the stream, and the second vessel 
followed him like a ghostly shadow in the twilight. 


A man sat gazing out from his rocky shelter. His 
dark eyes were brooding as he contemplated the falling 
snow. Below him, rendered invisible by the storm, lay 
the still bosom of the mountain lake with shore ice sup¬ 
porting its white burden. The bulk of the water still 


334 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


resisted the grip of winter, but with every passing day, 
every hour, the spread of shore ice was encroaching. 

The grey curtain of falling snow was impenetrable 
even to the accustomed eyes of Usak. The world about 
him was silent, and windless, and alive with that desolate 
threat which drives man to despair. He had reached the 
mouth of the Valley of the Fire Hills, and, blinded by 
the sudden snow-storm, had sought what shelter he could 
find. 

His shelter was half cavern and half overhung in the 
towering headland at the mouth of the valley. Yet it 
served. His kyak was hauled from the icy water and 
lay on the foreshore. And the man sat over a smoulder 
of fire made of the driftwood he had collected on his way, 
and the profusion of lichen he had gathered from the 
snow-free shelter in which he sat. 

Usak crouched huddled and smoking, over the inade¬ 
quate fire. Its warmth was negligible, but it afforded 
that without which no human being in such desolation 
could endure, a mental comfort and companionship. He 
was content to wait. For all the winter was advancing 
apace, for all he knew that soon, desperately soon, the 
great lake, out upon which he was gazing, would be one 
broad sheet of ice many feet in thickness, and impossible 
for the light craft which was his vehicle, he was content 
enough. The Valley of the Fire Hills would remain 
unfrozen, and the great river below him would remain 
open long enough for his navigation. For the rest there 
was always portage. Oh, yes. Time was with him. 
The real freeze-up was not yet. The snow would cease 
later, and meanwhile he could contemplate the thing he 
had looked forward to for so many years. 

So there was no impatience that the world was blinded 
by snowflakes half the size of his brown palm. With 


A WHITEMAN’S WORD 


335 


the passing of the silent storm, so still, so windless, doubt¬ 
less the cold would increase, but also, doubtless, the sky 
could clear, and the Arctic twilight would again light the 
world with its ghostly rays. 

He thrust out a moccasined foot and kicked the embers 
of his fire together. He removed the pipe from his 
strong jaws, and held its stem to the warmth. The 
saliva in it had frozen, and it had gone out. 

Presently he reached down and picked up a live coal. 
He tossed it into the pipe bowl and sucked heavily at the 
stem, belching clouds of reeking smoke. His enjoyment 
was profound. 

After awhile the pipe was neglected. His enjoyment 
of it was merged into something more absorbing. His 
savage mind was lost in the thing that had brought him 
to the heart of the great Alaskan hills, and he was gazing 
on a vision of savage delight. As his hands gripped each 
other about his knees there was movement in them, 
nervous, twitching movement. For, in fancy, they were 
slowly crushing out the life he was determined should 
know the hideous meaning of prolonged death agony. 

His delight was in his darkly brooding eyes as they 
looked into the flicker of the fire. His mind was teeming 
with the thing he would say while that life was conscious 
and could know the terror and agony of those last mo¬ 
ments. Oh, yes. It was worth all the waiting and he 
was glad, glad that now, at last, the moment of his final 
vengeance was approaching. Sheer insanity was driving, 
but it was that calm insanity where the border line is 
passed coldly and calmly with hate the dominating in¬ 
fluence. Suddenly he started and leant forward. 

His hands parted from about his knees, and, in a 
moment, he was on his feet crouching and gazing out 
into the impenetrable snowfall. He moved aside from 


336 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


his fire and crept forward. Then he stood up tall and 
straight, and his head was turned with an ear to the outer 
world. 

A sound had reached ears trained to the pitch of any 
forest creature. It had been faint, so faint, yet to Usak 
it was quite unmistakable. It had come from out there 
on the water beyond the ground ice, and he knew that 
some living thing was passing, hidden by the grey of the 
snowfall. 

He stood for a long time listening, his dark eyes no less 
alert than his ears. Then with something like reluctance 
he came back to the fire and spread his hands out over 
it. After awhile he returned to his seat. There was no 
doubt in his mind. The sound he had heard was the 
ruffling of the water stirred by the dip of a paddle. 

But his shoulders moved in a shrug, and he dismissed 
the matter. Why not? There were folk in the Valley of 
the Fire Hills, other folk than those—Yes, far up, there 
were many of the folk he hated but did not fear—the 
Euralians. 


Usak was standing on the landing almost lost in the 
billows of smoke surging down upon him. They belched 
out of the heart of the wood which concealed the clearing, 
wherein had stood the secret habitation of the man whom 
he had designed should know his final vengeance. 

The whole of the dripping valley seemed to be afire. 
Behind him the roar and crackle of the burning forest 
grew louder, and the suffocating smoke grew denser and 
denser while the heat was blistering. 

He stepped quickly into his waiting kyak and pushed 
out into the stream, vanishing in the twilight of the night. 
He paddled rapidly till he had cleared the woodland belt 


A WHITEMAN’S WORD 


337 


and approached the unlovely barrens of the Fire Hills. 
Then he sought the shelter of the bank and shipped his 
paddle. 

He knelt up in the little vessel gazing back at the 
ruthless work of his hands. It was there plain enough 
for him to see. The billows of drifting smoke were 
darkly outlined against the moonlit, star-decked heavens. 
And farther inland was the glowing heart of the fire, 
with leaping splashes of flame lightening up the world 
around it, hungrily devouring the splendid dwelling that 
had once been the home of his most hated enemy. 

But there was none of the joy in his mood that might 
have been looked for. No. A light of fury was burning 
in his merciless eyes. He had been thwarted in his long 
contemplated vengeance, and he had been driven to 
the impotent devastation which his savage heart had 
prompted. He had reached the place only to find it 
utterly deserted. The house he found devoid of all life, 
and his search had only yielded him further confirmation 
that his intended victims had escaped him. So, in his 
insane savagery, he had done the thing that alone would 
satisfy. He had fired the house, and seen to it that even 
the woods about it should not escape destruction. 

He remained for awhile contemplating the mischief 
of his handiwork and drawing such comfort from it as 
his mood would allow. Then, at last, feasted, satiated, 
he dipped his paddle again into the sluggish waters. 

He knew. He understood. The chance had been his 
far back there at the mouth of the creek. He had heard 
the sound of a paddle, and should have guessed. But 
his wits had failed him, and the snow had blinded him. 
But even now he did not wholly despair. There was the 
winter. The man was blind. And the woman—Psha! 
He drove his paddle with all the fury of his desire. 


CHAPTER XV 


THE IRONY OF FATE 

The race against the season was being won. The race 
against that other—? 

Yes, Bill Wilder was well enough satisfied. Not a day, 
not an hour had been lost in his rush to the hills. He 
had spared no effort. And on the return he had driven 
hard with the full weight of the stream speeding him. 
There had been the one heavy snowstorm as he had 
passed out of the mouth of the Valley of the Fire Hills. 
For a few hours it had blinded him and forced him to 
shelter. For the rest the luck of the weather had been 
with him, with only the increasing cold and the twenty 
hour nights with which to do battle. 

He was feeling good as he came to the familiar landing 
above the Grand Falls, and prepared for his portage down 
to the canyon of the rapids. 

It was all curious in its way, and there were moments 
on the journey when he found himself half whimsically 
wondering at the thing he was doing. For the man he 
was endeavouring to save from the hands of Usak he 
had only utter loathing and detestation. There was no 
pity in him, not a moment’s thought of it. For the little 
distracted woman it was different. He knew he was 
risking everything in life out of pity for this poor 
creature, who was nothing in the world to him except 
that she was a woman, and not even white at that. He 

338 


THE IRONY OF FATE 


339 


realised his utter folly. He even reminded himself that 
the thing he was doing was not only unfair to himself, 
but to those others who looked to him for succour, that 
other whose life had become focussed in him. 

He knew that an encounter with Usak would mean a 
battle to the death of one or perhaps all of them. He 
knew that, embarrassed by these helpless creatures, a 
sudden final onslaught of the Arctic winter night might 
well mean the end of all things. But he had not hesitated. 
No. He had calculated closely. His knowledge of the 
northern world had told him that there was time—even 
time to spare. The daylight had not yet passed, and, 
unless the season was one of unusual severity, the 
dreaded freeze-up was not due for several weeks more. 
No. The cold was steadily increasing. There would be 
more snow yet. But there would be relapses of tempera¬ 
ture, and the final sealing of the great river was still a 
long way off. So he had refused to be turned aside from 
his purpose. 

He had laboured on with a mind steadily poised and 
with nerves in perfect tune. His greatest apprehension 
was the possible encountering of the Indian, Usak. And 
even on this his resolve was clear and as merciless as 
anything the savage, himself, might have contemplated. 
He was armed and ready, and no interference would be 
tolerated even if his necessity drove him to slaughter. 

The daylight had been spent in disgorging the two 
canoes of their freight. He and the little Japanese 
woman had spent the time preparing his packs. They 
were not vast, but the whole portage would mean three 
laborious trips over the rough territory of the great 
gorge down to the landing below. 

The first trip was to be his own canoe. The second 
was to be the camp outfit of his passengers. The blind- 


340 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


man and the woman would accompany him on that trip 
and help with the packs. Then, with these folk safely 
encamped below the gorge, he would return alone to 
bring down their canoe. 

Yes. It was all clearly planned with a view to the 
simplest and best advantage, and the preliminary work 
had gone on rapidly under his energetic guidance. There 
was not one moment’s unnecessary delay, for he under¬ 
stood, only too well, the value of every precious hour he 
could steal on his human and elemental adversaries. 

The last pack had been made up of the things that 
could be dispensed with. His canoe was hauled up 
empty, ready to be shouldered. And now, with the last 
flash of daylight shining in the south-west, he stood low 
down on the foreshore gazing out over the water in the 
direction of the misty falls. Mid-day was only two hours 
gone and the daylight was already collapsing with the 
falling sun. 

The peace of this far-off world was a little awesome, 
the silence was something threatening. The dull roar of 
the Grand Falls alone robbed it of utter, complete sound¬ 
lessness. The snow was a soft virgin carpet in every 
direction. The hardy, dark woods were weighted down 
with its burden. For all there was shore ice against the 
river bank the whole breadth of the waters of the river 
were silently, heavily flowing on to the tremendous pre¬ 
cipitation far beyond. But it was not of these things 
that Wilder was thinking. In the emergency besetting 
he was concerned only for the signs which, out of his 
experience, he was striving to interpret. 

They were very definite. The sun had fallen below the 
horizon, accompanied by two pale sundogs that strove 
but failed to display an angry glare. The horizon was 
clear of all cloud, a vault of wonderful colour. Such 


THE IRONY OF FATE 


34i 


breath of wind as was stirring was coming up out of the 
south-east. It was good. It was all good. The sundogs 
suggested possible, ultimate change, but not yet. The 
breeze was almost mild. But above all there was not a 
single cloud to shut out the light of the moon that would 
presently rise, and the brilliant starlight, and the benefi¬ 
cent northern lights. No. It would be a perfect night. 

He turned back to the couple hugging the tiny fire 
they had ventured to light in the shelter of an attenuated 
bluff of woods. 

“Just get this clear,” he said thrusting his hands out 
to the warmth. “I’m setting out right away. It’ll take 
me six hours to make back here. Six hours good. I’d 
have been glad to cache your boat back there in the 
woods, an’ hide up our tracks right. But the snow on 
the ground beats us on that play. Any pair of eyes 
happening along could follow us anywhere. No. If 
Usak’s around I give him credit for being able to read 
our tracks anyway, and with the snow, why they’re just 
shriekin’ at him. We got to take a big chance. But 
ther’s one play we can make.” 

He paused and rubbed his hands thoughtfully while 
the eyeless man gazed unerringly up into his face, and 
the woman beside him waited a prey to apprehension. 

“You best beat it back into these woods,” he went on 
quickly. “Leave that fire—burning. Leave it so it 
looks like dying out. As if we were all out on portage. 
See? And you two make the woods, dodging the snow 
patches, an’ walking on the bare ground. Take your 
sleeping kit, and get what sleep you can—without a fire. 
That’s all. I’ll get right back just as quick as I know. 
Once we’re on the river below these Falls, why I guess 
Usak hasn’t a chance. But I got to leave you one end 
or the other while I make this first portage, an’ it seems 


342 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


horse sense leaving you above the Falls. We haven’t 
seen a sign of that murdering Indian above here the 
whole way.” 

The blindman nodded. 

“That’s sense,” he said in his harsh way. 

The woman silently acquiesced. It was sufficient that 
the man had agreed. But her troubled eyes told of the 
haunting dread that obsessed her. 

Wilder turned away and moved over to his canoe lying 
ready. He stooped down, and when he stood up again 
the little vessel was exactly poised upon his broad back. 


The hush of the woods was profound. The dark aisles 
of the trees were visible in the moonlight, for the foliage 
above was thin, and meagre, and tattered under the fierce 
storms which roared down out of the heart of the hills. 
The promise of sun-down had been fulfilled. A full 
moon shone down upon a chill, silvery world, and the 
starlight was of that amazing brilliance which is the great 
redeeming of the Arctic night. There was no wind, not 
a breath. It was cold, intensely cold, and the northern 
heavens were lit by an amazing wealth of vivid, moving 
lights. 

The blindman and his woman made no pretence of the 
sleep that Wilder had suggested. Sleep was impossible to 
them. They crouched together in their sleeping furs, 
striving for any measure of warmth for their chilled 
bodies. But they had otherwise obeyed. For the thing 
suggested had appealed. They were deep hidden amidst 
the tree trunks, waiting, waiting for that return which 
alone could yield them any sense of security. 

They talked together spasmodically, and in low, 
hushed tones. 


THE IRONY OF FATE 


343 


For the most part they talked in their own native 
tongue, but sometimes they used the language of the 
country of their adoption. 

The blindman’s hearing was doubly acute for his 
affliction. And he crouched straining for any sound to 
warn them of lurking danger. But the hours passed, and 
only the droning roar of the distant Falls broke the 
soundlessness of the night. 

Crysa could contain her fears no longer. A sigh 
escaped her and she stirred restlessly. 

“He will come?” she said, and her tone was full of 
besetting doubt. 

The man’s reply was slow in coming. It almost 
seemed as though the straining effort of listening com¬ 
pletely pre-occupied him. 

He nodded at last. 

“He will come,” he rasped. Then he added, “He is a 
fool whiteman.” 

The woman’s quick eyes lit as they glanced round on 
her husband. 

“He is good,” she said. 

“Good?” 

The scorn in the yellow man’s tone was something 
bitter beyond words. 

Nothing more was said, and the man returned to his 
listening. 


A long low kyak glided up to the landing. It came 
without sound, for the stream was swift, and the shore 
ice had been broken up by those who had come before. 
The trailing paddle was lifted quickly from the water and 
the vessel’s occupant reached out and caught the side of 


344 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


the boat lying moored against the bank. Skilfully he 
guided the nose of his craft in between the moored vessel 
and the bank, and the whole thing was completed in 
absolute soundlessness. 

With his vessel lying stationary he remained for a 
moment unmoving. His great body towered as he knelt 
up against his paddling strut. He was surveying the 
moored boat with eager, dark eyes and an acutely reading 
mind. Presently he turned from the contemplation of 
the thing that had set a wild fierce hope stirring in his 
savage heart. His gaze was flung upon the landing 
itself, and upon the surrounding slope of the river bank, 
and the adjacent bluff of woods. The brilliant night 
revealed all he sought with a clearness which left him 
without a shadow of doubt. Finally he discovered 
beyond, just within the shelter of the woods, the last 
dying smoulder of the camp fire. He reached towards the 
nose of his kyak, and seized the long rifle lying there. 
Then he stepped ashore. 

The dark figure moved swiftly up the shore. It 
reached the edge of the woods and stood for a moment 
gazing down on the dying camp fire. The dark eyes had 
suddenly become fiercely urgent as he searched every sign 
that was there for his interpretation. 

After a few moments the man moved about in the 
neighbourhood of the fire. His moccasined feet gave 
out no sound. He was searching diligently in the trod¬ 
den snow. At last he came again to a halt. He threw 
up his head and stared about him. It was the attitude of 
a creature of the forest scenting its prey, and in his eyes 
was a look of fierce exulting as he gazed into the dark 
shelter of the woods. Then his whole attitude under¬ 
went a change. He seemed to crouch down. His long 
rifle was borne at the trail in his hand, and he moved 


THE IRONY OF FATE 345 

forward stealthily, and became swallowed up by the 
shadowed depths. 


The hush of the night left the falling of a pine cone 
a sound that was almost startling. The droning roar of 
the distant Falls was only part of the awesome quiet. 
The windlessness was a threat of greater and greater 
depths of cold, while the brilliant moon and cloudless sky 
only helped to impress more deeply the intense frigidity 
of the coming season. It was all perfect, in its exquisite 
peace, a vision of superlative splendour in the amazing 
twilight. It suggested a sublime creation unspoiled, un¬ 
sullied by any inharmonious blemish, a broad indefinite 
sketch set out by the mighty brush and divine inspiration 
of a God-like artist who only requires to inset the subtle, 
finishing details. Such was the seeming of the moment. 

A cry. A series of raucous human cries. They came 
from somewhere within the forest belt. They came full 
of terror, and maybe pain. They came full of ferocious 
unyielding and savage passion. They came again and 
again, with the shrill of a woman’s voice mingling. Then 
the last sound died out, swallowed up by the immense 
silence. 

So the grandeur of the night scene, the sublimity of 
Nature’s profound calm, lost for a few brief moments 
by the invasion of an expression of surging human 
passions, returned again, all undefeated, to the rugged 
heart of the northern wilderness. 

»•••••• 

The moon was still high in the starlit heavens, 
shedding its cold benignity upon the flowing waters. The 
belt of the northern lights had extended. Their ghostly 


34^ 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


sheen had deepened, and the vivid arc of a burnished 
aurora had joined their legions. The world was lit anew. 
The twilight had glorified; the night was transformed. 
No longer was the moon the dominant light giver. The 
jewel-like sparkle of the stars had dimmed in contrast. 
For the aurora, the glory of the Arctic night, had 
ascended its triumphant throne. 

The whiteman swung along, approaching the camping 
ground above the Falls, filled with satisfaction and hope 
at the beneficent change. For practical purposes the 
night light was all-sufficient. In fancy he saw the com¬ 
pletion of his labours in far less time than he had antici¬ 
pated, and something like ultimate security for those he 
sought to succour. 

The further portage would be easy now. The first trip 
was over. Now there was the bearing of the packs in 
which he would have the assistance of those others. Then 
the last—the portage of their- 

He had reached the low shore clearing of the landing. 
A great flood of silvery light illuminated the whole 
breadth of the river. There it lay a wide, swift tide, with 
the great hills far across its bosom rising a jagged snow¬ 
capped line, gleaming like burnished silver under the 
amazing heavenly lights. 

But the scene as Nature had painted it made not an 
instant’s claim upon him. How should it? He had come 
to a sudden halt, his gaze riveted upon a vision that made 
him draw his breath sharply, and set his heart leaping. 
He became rooted to the spot. Two boats were out there 
on the broad bosom of the river. Two of them. And 
both were moving on down the stream towards- 

A shout broke from him. It came with all the power 
of his well-nigh bursting lungs. It was the natural im¬ 
pulse which his surge of feeling inspired. He shouted 




THE IRONY OF FATE 


347 


again and again. Then of a sudden he charged down to 
the water’s edge, and stood staring helplessly, silently, a 
prey to unspeakable horror. 

Two boats! The leading vessel was a long low kyak. 
There was no mistaking its build. Just as there was no 
mistaking, to his mind, the burly figure propelling it. The 
second boat he recognised on the instant. It was the 
canoe he had expected to portage on his third trip. In it 
were two figures sitting up. They were motionless. They 
were paddleless. They were sitting, inert, like bundles 
set there, and quite incapable of any movement, incapable 
of any resistance. And between the two boats stretched 
a taut line. 

It needed no second thought for Wilder to realise the 
thing that was being enacted. The inhuman vengeance 
of the crazy Indian had descended upon those benighted 
helpless folk and no power on earth could save them. 

Usak’s purpose was as clear as the brilliant light of the 
night. The ruthless savage was towing them out into 
mid-stream. Presently he would, doubtless, release their 
vessel when it had reached the limit of safety for him¬ 
self. Then he would leave them to the hideous destruc¬ 
tion awaiting them at the great waterfall flinging back 
its thunderous roar out of the heart of the mists en¬ 
shrouding it. 

There was no succour that he could offer. He was 
without any means of reaching them with his own canoe 
already below the Falls. And his automatic pistol was 
useless. No. He could only stand there helplessly watch¬ 
ing the terrible tragedy of it all. 

Now he knew the thing that must have happened. He 
vividly pictured the coming of Usak, whom they must 
have passed higher up the river on their way down. The 
stillness of the figures in the boat was terribly significant. 


348 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


The man must have come upon them in their hiding, per¬ 
haps asleep. He must have overpowered them. Prob¬ 
ably he had bound them hand and foot when he set them 
in the boat, so that the blindman, no less than the other, 
should contemplate, even if it was only through his hear¬ 
ing, the dreadful death he was preparing for them. 

He caught his breath. Then in a moment he hurled the 
full force of his impotent loathing in a furious shout 
across the water. 

“You swine! God Almighty!” 

The exclamation came as he saw the man cease pad¬ 
dling and reach out to the rope behind him. In a moment 
it was severed, and the trailing boat began instantly to 
turn broadside on to the current. 

The watching man gave a gasp. Then the broadside 
boat was forgotten, and his whole attention was given 
to the other, the boat containing the demented creature 
perpetrating his long-pondered crime. 

Usak’s paddle was beating the water furiously. He 
was striving with all his enormous strength and skill to 
swing his light vessel out of the stream. He was labour¬ 
ing in a fashion that instantly warned the on-looker of the 
peril besetting him. And the sight of the struggle thrilled 
him with an excitement which had no relation to any 
desire for the man’s escape. 

Usak was a superb river man. Perhaps he had no 
equal upon the northern waters. But he was an Indian 
with the lust to kill, and without the sober judgment of 
the whiteman watching him from the shore. Wilder 
understood. It was there for him to see. The Indian 
had gone too far in his desire. He had passed the limits 
of safety before he severed the rope to hurl his victims 
to the fate he had designed for them. He was caught in 
the same overwhelming rush of silent water. His paddle 



THE IRONY OF FATE 


349 


was no better than a toy thing to stay the rush. His 
kyak was caught and flung broadside. And abreast of 
the other it was drifting, drifting down upon the roaring 
cataract ahead. 

Wilder drew a deep breath. 

Usak had ceased paddling. There was a moment in 
which he remained utterly unmoving like those others. 
To the on-looker it seemed that he was contemplating the 
full horror in which his mistake had involved him. Then, 
of a sudden, he saw the dark figure rear itself up in the 
boat, which, even at that distance, seemed to rock peril¬ 
ously. The man stood erect. Then an arm was raised 
and the paddle was flung into the racing waters. After 
that it seemed that the doomed creature’s arms were 
folded across his broad bosom, and, like a statue, 
unmoved by any emotion of fear, he stood boldly con¬ 
templating the terrible doom towards which he and his 
victims were inevitably being borne. 

Wilder turned away. It was all too painful. It was 
all too horrible in its human wantonness. He passed 
up the shore and sat down, pondering the irony of the fate 
that had descended upon the demented man out there on 
the water. 

And after awhile, when the cold of the night drove 
him, and he bestirred himself, and again moved down to 
the water’s edge, it was to witness the placid unruffled 
bosom of the great river flowing heavily on as it had done 
throughout the ages. The trifling human tragedy it had 
witnessed was far too infinitely small to leave its impress 
upon a scene so tremendous in its expression of over¬ 
whelming Nature. 


CHAPTER XVI 


THE END OF THE LONG TRAIL 

The transformation was complete. It was beyond any¬ 
thing that had been dreamed of by those who had fore¬ 
seen the thing that would happen. It had come with that 
startling rapidity which the lure and magic of gold never 
fails to bring about. 

Just before the break of spring saw the return to the 
Caribou of Chilcoot and Bill Wilder. But their return 
was very different from their adventurous going, when it 
had been a desperate race against the season. They came 
while the grip of the Arctic night was still fast upon the 
great waterways, and before the sun had lifted its shining 
face above the horizon. They came with a great equip¬ 
ment of men and material on heavily laden dog-sleds. 
They came with all speed that not a moment of the com¬ 
ing daylight might be lost, and to head off the rush of 
the human tide that was already strung out behind them 
for the new adventure. 

Bill Wilder had not permitted the grievous tragedy he 
had witnessed on the upper waters of the Hekor to deflect 
his purpose one iota. The shock of the thing he had 
witnessed had been painful beyond words. For the blind 
leader of the Euralian marauders he had had not one 
grain of pity. For the great Indian, who had given his 
life to the loyal service of the girl he loved, there had 
been a regret that was not untinged with a sensation of 
relief. He felt somehow that the thing was right; he felt 


350 


THE END OF THE LONG TRAIL 351 


that had the demented creature achieved his purpose and 
himself escaped, the position would have been fraught 
with serious complications, not to say dangers. Usak 
would have expected to return to his service of Felice as 
though nothing had happened. He would have de¬ 
manded the thing he looked upon as his right. And to 
hold his place at her side he would have been prepared to 
use any and all the methods his savage mind prompted. 

Wilder’s duty would have been obvious. The man had 
committed his wanton crime. He was a serious danger 
to them all. Even, he felt, to the girl herself. There 
would have been nothing for him to do but hand the story 
of the crime to his friend, George Raymes. That would 
have deeply involved him. The Kid would have been 
hurt, hurt as he had no desire to hurt her, with the know¬ 
ledge of the hideous crime, and that the full penalty of 
whiteman’s law had fallen upon the man who had been 
a second father and devoted servant to her. As it was 
she need never know the thing that had happened. No 
one need ever know the thing that had happened, except 
Raymes, and perhaps Chilcoot, who would, he knew, re¬ 
main as silent as the grave. 

He had felt it was all for the best. And somehow, 
in those moments in which he had witnessed the calm 
courage with which the Indian had faced his terrible end 
a feeling of intense admiration and sympathy went out 
to the savage whose conception of manhood was so curi¬ 
ous a blending of downright honesty and loyalty, of hate 
to the limit of fiendish cruelty, and of an invincible cour¬ 
age in face of personal disaster. 

But for the little Japanese woman his feelings were 
stirred to the deepest. When he thought of her, body and 
soul he hated the ruthless Indian with all the passionate 
manhood in him. And the more deeply he pondered her 


35 2 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


tragic end, the more surely he cried out against the seem¬ 
ing injustice that Fate could have allowed it to come to 
pass. 

He had sat for hours over the flickering camp fire be¬ 
fore he contemplated continuing his labours. But in the 
end the shock of the horror passed, and the urgency of 
the moment bestirred him. There was nothing to be done 
but to continue his journey. There was no need even to 
obliterate such traces of the camp as might remain. It 
was the way of Nature in these far-flung regions to hide 
up man’s track almost in the moment of his passing. 

So he had made his way down to Placer, not even 
pausing at the rapids at the mouth of the Caribou, so 
vivid with happy memories for him. It was a journey 
of weeks that taxed every ounce of the manhood in him. 
For the night of winter had fallen, and the storming 
world about him was often doubly blinded. But he 
reached his destination at last, and reached it with the 
last of the open water. 

It was his return to Placer that set the whole city agog. 
It was known he had been about in the north for two 
open seasons. And the conclusions drawn were natural 
enough in a gold community watching the movements of 
the man who was the leading figure in the traffic upon 
which it was engaged. 

He denied every inquiry by which he was assailed. He 
denied even his friend, and, for the time being, chief, 
George Raymes. He visited him at once. And with his 
first greeting explained in a fashion he had long since pre¬ 
pared. 

“I’m right glad to see you again, George,” he declared, 
as they gripped hands. “Ther’ve been times when I 
didn’t guess it would happen ever. But I’ve so far beat 
the game, and I’m glad. Now, see, right here,” he went 


THE END OF THE LONG TRAIL 353 

on, smiling whimsically into the other’s questioning eyes, 
“I haven’t any report to hand you yet. And I’ll take it 
more than friendly you don’t ask me a thing. I’m setting 
right out with one big outfit, and if the game goes my way 
I’ll be right back when the earth’s dry, and the skitters 
are humming. And when that time comes I’ll hand you a 
story that ought to set you sky high with the folks who run 
your end of the game. Do you feel like acting that way?” 

The policeman was content. He knew Wilder too well 
to press him. Besides, Chilcoot had been in the city 
weeks. Chilcoot had been in close contact with the Gold 
Commissioner. Furthermore, Chilcoot had been prepar¬ 
ing the return outfit, collecting men and material for a 
swift rush, and had talked with him in his office. So he 
readily acquiesced, and left these “special” constables 
to work out their plans in the way they saw fit. 

But the whisper had gone round. Bill Wilder and Chil¬ 
coot Massy were preparing a great outfit for the trail. 
Bill Wilder and Chilcoot Massy were buying largely. And 
their purchases were of all that material required in the 
exploitation of a big “strike.” Then word had leaked 
out through the Gold Commissioner’s office, as, some¬ 
how, it always contrived to do when something of real 
magnitude was afoot. So the “sharps,” and the “wise- 
guys,” and the traders, and all the riff-raff, ready to 
jump in on anything offering a promise of easy gain, 
bestirred themselves out of their winter’s pursuit of 
pleasure. Not one, but a hundred outfits were quietly 
being prepared with the deliberate intention of dogging 
these great captains of the gold trade to their destination. 
Chilcoot and Wilder were preparing for the winter trail. 
And as a result every dog and sled within the city was 
brought into commission. 

Then had come the setting out. It was arranged with 


23 


354 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


the utmost secrecy. The preparations of these men had 
been made beyond the straggling town’s limits, so that 
the get-away could be as sudden as they chose to make it. 
Every man engaged to accompany them was under bond 
to report each day at the camp at a given hour, and this 
had gone on since the moment of their engagement. It 
was on this rule Wilder depended for his get-away from 
those who were determined to follow. 

For days and weeks the outfit stood ready. Each day 
the dogs were harnessed, and every man was in his place. 
Then the word was passed to unhitch, and the men were 
permitted to return to the city. 

The intending pursuit knew the game from A to Z. 
It was not new. It had been practised a hundred times. 
It was no less ready. It was no less on the watch. When 
the start was actually made word would reach them with¬ 
in two hours and the whole wolf pack would jump. 

So it happened. One day the men did not return to the 
city. But word came back, and the rush began. Out into 
the twilight of the Arctic night leapt the army of trail 
dogs and their teamsters. Hundreds of sleds hissed their 
way over the snow-bed on the great river. Hundreds of 
voices shouted the jargon of the trail at their eager beasts 
of burden, and the fierce whips flung out. Many were 
rushing on disaster in the blind northern night. Many 
would never reach the hoped-for goal to grab the alluring 
wealth from the bosom of mother earth. But that was 
always the way of it. Whatever the threat, whatever the 
dread, whatever the possibility of disaster, the lust of gold 
in the hearts of these people remained triumphant. 

But the thing worked out for Wilder as he designed. 
The old tried artifice gave him the start he needed. Three 
hours was all he required. For the rest these hardy ad¬ 
venturers behind him would never see the snow dust from 


THE END OF THE LONG TRAIL 355 


his sled runners. He was equipped for a speed such as 
none of them could compete with, and if the weather be¬ 
came bad he calculated to lose the pursuit utterly. 

It was a storming journey. The North he loved and 
courted did her best for him in return. Snow-storm and 
blizzard came to his aid, and, after weeks of terrible 
hardship, he reached the Caribou with his track lost be¬ 
neath feet of drift snow. 

He had gained all the time he needed. And so when 
the spring sun rose above the horizon, and the world of 
ice began its thunderous peals of disintegration, and the 
hordes of Placer swarmed on the banks of the Caribou 
he had established his outfit upon the staked claims ready 
to hurl at the work before him, and defend his property 
from all lawless aggression. 

With the return of daylight it was a bewildering scene 
on the river. From its mouth right up to the gold-work¬ 
ing on the creek, which had lain so long hidden, the tide 
of adventurers was swarming. And almost with every 
passing hour the flood seemed to grow. The low banks 
were dotted with tents and habitations of almost every 
sort of primitive construction. And men and women, 
and even children, were like human flies where for ages 
the silence of the North had remained all unbroken. 

As the season advanced and the fever of work devel¬ 
oped to its height, the reality of the thing became evident. 
Gold? Why the original strike was little more than the 
fringe of the thing awaiting those whose hardihood had 
been sufficient for them to survive the winter journey. 
The creek, as Chilcoot had suggested, was laden with its 
immense treasure, and rich claims were staked for ten 
miles up its narrow course. ‘‘The Luck of the Kid,” as 
Wilder had christened it, was a veritable Eldorado. 


356 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


The homestead lying back in its shelter of windswept 
bluff had no place in the bustle and traffic on the river. It 
was a home of even deeper calm now than was its wont 
when the northern world aroused itself at the dawn of the 
open season. Usually at such a time the caribou herd 
was brought in, and the work its advent entailed never 
failed to absorb the rising spirits of those young lives, 
ready like the simple wild flowers of spring, to hurl them¬ 
selves into their annual labours after the long night of 
winter’s inactivity. Usually at such a time it was the 
hub of life upon the river, literally teeming in contrast 
with the stillness of the cheerless valley. But now the 
herd remained at large free to drift back to its original 
wild state. The corrals were empty and unrepaired, for 
there was no Usak to guide the efforts of the half- 
breed Eskimo, and no half-breed Eskimo to need such 
guidance. 

The farm had died in the winter night. And curiously 
enough there were no mourners. All that remained was 
the homestead itself, with Hesther McLeod and the girl 
Children, and the Kid, to enjoy its sturdy shelter. The 
half-breeds had joined in the rush for gold. And 
Clarence, and Alg., and Perse were out there, away up the 
river “batching it” on their claims, absorbed in the ex¬ 
hilarating pursuit of extracting the wealth which had 
been literally flung into their hands. Then Usak had 
failed to return from his “one big trip.” 

Hesther and the Kid were at the kitchen door, 
and with them was the author of the amazing trans¬ 
formation. 

It was a day of brilliant sunshine with a spring sky 
of white, frothing, windswept cloud that broke, and 
gathered, and swept on, yielding a vision of brilliant blue 
sky at every break. Already the flies were making their 


THE END OF THE LONG TRAIL 357 

presence felt, and the river was a rushing torrent, wide, 
and deep, and brown with the sweepings of its completely 
submerged banks. 

They were gazing out upon the distant panorama of 
the busy river. They were watching the general move¬ 
ment going on. There were men moving up, packing 
their goods afoot since the river was for the moment un- 
navigable for the light craft, which, as yet, were alone 
available. There were traders building shanties for the 
housing of their wares. There were tents which sheltered 
those who were relying on the gambler’s desire for their 
share in the feast. There were other habitations which 
housed, the even more disreputable creatures, who, like 
vultures, hover always in the distance waiting to glut 
themselves upon the spoils of the wayside. Then, much 
more in their appeal to the gentle mind of Hesther, there 
were the figures of women, staunch, devoted women car¬ 
rying on their simple domestic labours while their men 
were absent farther up the river seeking the treasure 
which their dazzled eyes yearned to gaze upon. 

For all they were gazing upon the scene Hesther and 
the Kid were far more deeply interested in Bill Wilder 
and the thing he was saying. The eyes of the girl were 
shining with unfeigned happiness and delight. The long 
winter of his absence had been ended weeks ago, and his 
early return had transformed her whole outlook. From 
the moment of his coming there had been no more dark¬ 
ness for her, no more anxious waiting. For had not al¬ 
most his first words been to tell her that his work, that 
work which had taken him from her side, was finished; 
completely, successfully finished. The excitement of the 
gold rush, the excitement of the boys had left her undis¬ 
turbed. But the happy excitement of this man’s return 
had thrilled her in a fashion that left her without thought 


358 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


or care for anything else. And now he was detailing 
those plans which envisaged for her simple mind all that 
was beautiful and desirable in life. 

“You see,” he said, “ther’s not a thing here now to 
keep us. It’s just the other way around. All this.” He 
indicated the life on the river. “We best get out before— 
before it gets worse, as it surely will.” 

He turned directly to Hesther. 

“My organization’s right up there on the claims, under 
the control of Chilcoot, and they’re working your stuff 
same as if it was for me. And the result of it’ll come 
along through my office, just the same as if it was mine. 
I’m not needed around up there. Maybe I best tell you 
I’m so full of gold I don’t care ever to see fresh colour. 
I want to quit it all, and take you folks along with me. 
The boys can stop around and Chilcoot’ll see to ’em. 
And we’ll just get along down and fix things the way 
we want ’em. Ther’s a swell house waiting in Placer for 
you, mam. It’s all fixed good. It’s your home, for you 
an’ yours just as soon as you feel like taking possession, 
and maybe the Kid here’ll feel like stopping along with 
you till—till—Say,” he turned to the smiling girl, “we 
won’t let a thing keep us waiting, eh? We’ll get married 
right away in Placer, just as quick as things can be fixed 
right. Then your Mum, here, can choose just where she 
feels like living. That so?” 

There was no need for verbal response. It was there in 
the girl’s eyes, which smiled happily up into his as she 
slipped her brown hand through his arm. 

“That’s the way I’d like to fix things,” he went on, 
taking possession of the girl’s hand. “Does it suit you, 
mam?” he said, turning again to Hesther. “Just say 
right here. Ther’s a bank roll waiting on you down 
there, in the way of an advance on the stuff that’s coming 


THE END OF THE LONG TRAIL 359 

to you out of your claim. And I’ll be around all the 
time to see you ain’t worried a thing.” 

The gentle-eyed mother opened her lips to speak. But 
words seemed difficult under his steady gaze. Wilder 
glanced quickly away, and the woman’s emotion passed. 

“I just don’t know how to say the thing I feel, Bill,” 
she said softly. “The thing you’ve been to me an’ mine. 
God’ll surely bless you, an’—an’ ” 

Bill laughed. He felt his laugh was needed. 

“Not a word that way. Say, you been mother to my 
little Kid. It goes?” 

“Sure. The thing you say goes with me—all the time.” 

Hesther glanced hastily back into the kitchen. She was 
seeking excuse and found it in her simple labours. 

“I guess that stew’ll be boilin’,” she said. “I’ll go fix 
it.” 

And Billy’s happy smile followed her into the room, 
while he caressed the hand he was holding. 


Bill and the Kid had passed on down to the landing so 
pregnant with memories for them both. 

It was the girl who was talking now while the man 
stared out down the busy river. 

“You know, Bill. I just don’t sort of understand the 
way this—this gold makes folks act. It sort of seems to’ 
set them kind of crazy. The boys are the same. I used 
to feel it would be fine to have dollars an’ dollars. I used 
to think of all the swell food and clothes I’d buy for the 
boys, an’ Hesther, an’ the girls. That was all right. But 
I didn’t get crazy for gold like these folk. You say ther’s 
a heap of gold in my claim. I—I don’t seem to feel I 
want a thing of it. True I don’t.” She laughed. “May- 



360 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


be you'll guess I’m more crazy than they are. Do you?” 

Bill shook his head. 

“No, Kid. I don’t,” he said gently. “I’m glad. Later, 
maybe, when we’re married, and you’ve got around, and 
learned about things, and seen the things you can have 
with gold you'll feel different. But I’m glad it don’t get 
you that way now. I tell you ther’s a big heap more to 
life than this gold. But ther’s a heap of good things you 
can do with gold. You feel you want to make other folks 
happy and comfortable? Well, gold’ll help you that way. 
I bin all my life collecting a bunch of this dam old stuff, 
and I’d learned to hate it good. Well, it’s not that way 
now. Say, I just lie awake at nights thinkin’ the things 
I can do for you, and the folks belonging to you. And I 
got to like the darn stuff again. And I’m just as crazy 
glad as all those other poor folk I got it.” He smiled 
whimsically down into the girl’s eyes. “The outfit’s 
ready, Kid. I’ve had it ready days,” he went on. “Ther’s 
two big canoes, and they’ll hold your Mum, and the gals, 
and you and me and the half-breeds to paddle. When do 
you say, little girl ? It’s right up to you.” 

He waited anxiously for the girl’s reply. Watching 
her he saw the happy smile fade abruptly out of her eyes, 
and he knew the bad moment he had foreseen had arrived. 

“Usak hasn’t got back,” she said quickly. 

“No.” - >j | 

Suddenly the girl withdrew her hand from the rough 
cloth arm of the man’s pea-jacket. 

“You know I just can’t understand the thing that’s 
happened. He’s been gone six months. He went, as I 
told you, right after you, and we haven’t heard a thing. 
You know, Bill, it kind of seems to me he’s—dead. I sort 
of feel it right here,” she went on, pressing her hands to 
her bosom. “An’—an’ I feel—Oh, he was an Indian I 


THE END OF THE LONG TRAIL 361 

know, but he was the feller who raised me like a father 
an’ mother. An’ I sort of loved him for it, an’—an’—I 
just can’t bear to quit till—till— Don’t you understand? 
I sort of feel I must wait for him. It would break him 
all up if I quit him. And I—I don't want to quit him. 
Indeed I don’t.” 

For some moments Bill made no attempt to reply. 
He remained staring out at the surging river as it roared 
on down under the freshet. He did not even attempt to 
comfort the girl in her obvious distress. 

It was difficult. But Bill was steadily resolved not to 
tell the real truth as he knew it. It would break her 
heart to know Usak to be the fierce fiend he was. No. 
If necessary he would lie in preference. 

He shook his head at last. 

“He won’t come back,” he said decidedly. “Get a grip 
on the position. He went on a winter trip. He set out in 
his kyak, you told me. He went with a light outfit 
and his rifle. Why, his kyak couldn’t carry two months’ 
grub, an’ he’s been away six. Let’s guess a bit. We 
know this old North. The winter trail. We know these 
rivers with the ice crowding down on ’em. We know 
you’ve only to beat the winter trail long enough to get 
your med’cine. The North gets us all beaten in the end 
if we don’t quit in time. The one way trail’s claimed 
Usak, little girl, if I’m a judge. No. Don’t wait on his 
return. If he gets back Chilcoot’ll send him right along on 
to us. If he’s alive I mean to have him with us. I 
squared things with him before he went so he’ll be glad 
to be with us both. Let’s leave it that way. Eh ?” 

The girl’s hand had stolen back to its place on the man’s 
arm, and he took possession of it again. To her he was 
irresistible, and then there was that wonderful, wonder¬ 
ful time coming. 


362 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


She nodded her fair head, and the smile dawned once 
more in her eyes. 

“I guess it’s best—but-” 

“That’s right” 

The man drew a deep breath of relief. He had been 
saved a deliberate lie. And his eyes smiled. 

“To-morrow?” he said quickly. 

But the girl was no less quick in her denial. 

“Mum couldn’t be ready. Ther’s the boys.” 

Bill laughed. 

“I forgot. This day week, eh?” he went on urgently. 
“The river’ll slacken then. That do?” 

The Kid laughed happily as he squeezed the soft hand 
lying so contentedly in his. 


Superintendent Raymes laid aside the folded sheets of 
the closely written report which he had read several times 
over. For a moment he sat gazing at it thoughtfully. 
Then he reached across his desk and selected a long cigar, 
and passed the box to his visitor and temporary subor¬ 
dinate. 

“Best take one, Bill,” he said. Then he laughed quietly. 
“You can only die once.” 

“But I don’t want to die—now.” 

Bill shook his head and pulled a pipe from the pocket 
of his pea-jacket. 

In a moment both men were smoking. Bill gazed about 
him while he waited for the other to speak. It was the 
same office he had always known. Simple, plain, typical 
of the lives of these Mounted Policemen. Somehow it 
appealed to him just now infinitely more than it had ever 
done before. He remembered his mood that time when 



THE END OF THE LONG TRAIL 363 


he had sat in the same chair two years before. And some¬ 
how he wanted to laugh. 

“It’s an amazing story, Bill,” Raymes said after 
awhile. “I guessed when I got you interested two years 
back there was a deal to it. But I never reckoned it was 
going to be the thing it is. Say—” His eyes lit and he 
swung his chair about and faced the other while he held 
his cigar poised streaming its smoke upon the somewhat 
dense atmosphere of the room. “By all accounts the folk 
hereabouts owe you a deal for the nosing of Le Gros’ 
‘strike.’ It’s the biggest since ‘Eighty-Mile’ ?” 

Bill shook his head. 

“Nobody owes me a thing—not even thanks. We’ve 
helped ourselves. And Lve helped myself most of all.” 

“But I thought you said you hadn’t a claim on it ?” 

“That’s so.” 

“Well?” 

Bill laughed outright. 

“Guess you’ve forgotten the ‘girl-child, white.’ ” 

Raymes nodded. His usually sober face was smiling 
in response. 

“I know. You located her.” 

“Sure I did.” Bill sucked happily at his old pipe. “I 
located her. And I brought her and her folks right down 
with me to this city. I fixed ’em all up in a swell house, 
and made things right for them. The Kid and I are go¬ 
ing to be married in two weeks from now. And I’ll take 
it friendly for you to stand by me when the passon fixes 
things. No, I don’t guess anyone owes me a thing. The 
Kid herself is my claim, an’ she’s chock full of the only 
gold that sets me yearning.” 

“Well, say!” 

The police officer sat gazing in smiling astonishment 

“Seems queer?” 


364 


THE LUCK OF THE KID 


“No. I’m just glad Fve had a hand in passing you 
that claim. Good luck, Bill. I’m sure your man.” 

Bill gripped the hand thrust out at him. Then the smile 
passed out of both men’s faces as if by agreement. After 
all the policeman’s work was his foremost concern. 

“It don’t seem to me there’s a thing to do about your 
story of this murdering Indian, and the folks he dragged 
to death with him,” he said, in his alert official way. “In 
a way it’s a sort of poetic justice on all concerned. I’ll 
need to pass it along with the official report, but it’ll may¬ 
be just end right there. But these Euralians. That’s a 
swell scoop for me, sure. It’s a thing for Ottawa, an’ll 
need to go down in detail. Maybe you'll be needed to 
hand further information. Japanese, eh? Well, it isn’t 
new in this western country. It’s the same from northern 
Alaska down to Panama. The darn continent’s alive with 
’em, penetrating peacefully, and robbing us white folks 
of our birthright. You know, Bill ther’s a bad day com¬ 
ing for us whites. We sit around an’ look on, shrugging 
our shoulders, and eating and sleeping well. And all the 
time this thing’s creeping on us, like some darn disease. 
The Americans know it, and are alive to the danger. We 
don’t seem to worry. At least, not officially. But I sort 
of see the day coming when this thing’s got to be fought 
sheer out, and I’m by no means sure of the outcome. 
We’re told the Yellow man in the West outnumbers the 
White. But that don’t suggest a thing of the reality. 
When the Yellow men mean to strike you’ll find they’ve 
honeycombed this country, and the States, and it’ll be 
something like four to one waiting to rise at the given 
word. Yes, it’s bad,” he finished up, with a grave shake 
of the head. “But you certainly have given me a swell 
scoop that should help my boat along with Ottawa. Guess 
you won’t feel like quitting our territory now, eh?” 


THE END OF THE LONG TRAIL 365 

The man’s manner had changed from gravity to some¬ 
thing bantering as he put his question. 

“More than ever,” Bill said, with a shake of the head. 

“But it’s the North’s given you all—this?” 

“Yes. That’s so, George.” Bill knocked out his pipe. 
“But you don’t know. Felice has been raised in the dark¬ 
ness of that darn region, almost without decent human 
comfort. She hasn’t known a thing but buckskin and 
the river trail, and the flies and skitters of a barren world 
for twenty of the best years of her life. She doesn’t 
know a thing but an almighty fight to make three meals 
of food a day, and a night passed in queer brown blankets 
an’ caribou pelts. Well, it’s up to me to teach her the 
thing life is and can be. I’m going to. I’m going to give 
her such a time she won’t remember those days. She’s 
going where the sun’s warm and life’s dead easy. And 
so are those belonging to her. It’s up to me, and I’m 
out to do it. You haven’t seen her yet. You’d under¬ 
stand if you had. She’s right outside sitting waiting for 
me in the buggy. Will you come along and say a word of 
welcome to her?” 

Bill had risen to his feet. There was just a shade of 
eagerness in his invitation. It was almost as if he feared 
reluctance in this old friend of his. 

But there was none. Not a shadow. Raymes rose 
from his desk on the instant, and his eyes were full of 
swift censure. 

“You kept her waiting there, Bill?” he cried. “You? 
Say, come right on and present me, so I can tell her the 

thing I think of you.” 


THE END 








NORTH 


BY 

JAMES B. HENDRYX 

A story of Alaska,—that it is by 
Hendryx stamps it as good. He has 
never failed to give an interesting 
plot; this one is both interesting and 
unusual, with the great Alaskan 
Sweepstakes, the famous dog-team 
race, as the exciting climax. 

You will like Burr MacShane and 
you will love Lou Gordon and her 
dogs. 


G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 


NEW YORK 


LONDON 




The East Wind 


By 

Hugh MacNair Kahler 


When a new writer finds and holds an audience 
of two million and more, with no resort to sensation¬ 
alism, sex, or silly sentiment, it is proof enough that 
he has extraordinary ability to interest and entertain. 
When, besides, his work wins emphatic praise from 
such sure critics as Tarkington and Galsworthy, it 
is sound evidence that he does something more. 

The six short novels included in this book abund¬ 
antly illustrate Hugh Kahler’s remarkable appeal to 
three types of reader: those who read stories for 
the story’s sake, those who exact of fiction fresh 
mental stimulus, and those who demand, as well, 
distinctive, brilliant craftsmanship in writing. 

Here is a book to enjoy, to think about, and to 
keep. 


G. P. Putnam’s Sons 


New York 


London 



ALCATRAZ 

BY 

MAX BRAND 

Horses, a girl, guns, and an heroic 
puncher move through the pages of this 
story with delightful rapidity, overcoming 
a succession of convincing obstacles—and 
it only ends when the pretty lady finally 
lies with true romantic fervor in the 
proper pair of arms. This novel further 
enhances the author’s reputation in the 
field of Western romances. It rings 
true ! 


G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 

NEW YORK LONDON 







P o n j o 1 a 

By 

Cynthia Stockley 

Ponjola is not merely another novel—it 
is another Stockley novel. To the readers 
of Poppy this carries real significance. In 
Ponjola , Miss Stockley has again caught 
the glamorous atmosphere of South Africa. 
Perhaps better than any other writer of 
today this author knows the secrets of the 
Dark Continent. Ponjola is the graphic 
tale of a girl who braved the depths of the 
African jungle to save the soul of the man 
who had saved hers. It is romance of the 
highest order. 


G. P. Putnam’s Sons 

New York London 


















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